Bittersweet

    “Harry? Nearly packed?”

    Harry jumped as Hermione whisked into the room he had shared with Ron all summer. Quickly, he dropped the framed portrait he had been holding and covered it with one of Ron’s stray maroon jumpers. Shaking his head a bit as though to clear his thoughts he turned to Hermione and forced a grin.

    “Yes, just about. Ron’s Mum got breakfast then?” Harry asked Hermione, who was dressed entirely in Muggle clothing in preparation for their trip. He was not accustomed to seeing her that way; normally Hermione wore robes, even during their free time. Lately however she had been spending a lot of time helping Mr Weasley, so Harry chalked up her Muggle attire to his influence. Her hair was just as bushy as usual, perhaps even more so, as it had grown a bit over the summer.

    Hermione nodded. “Yes, it’s on.” She looked at Harry more intensely, her eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s the matter, Harry?”

    “Matter?” Harry questioned in a rather false voice. He beamed at Hermione. “What’s the matter with what?”

    Hermione was not fooled. She sighed loudly and put her hands on her hips as if preparing to lecture a small child. “What’s wrong with you? You’ve been acting so strangely ever since you arrived at the Burrow! What’s bothering you Harry?”

    “Nothing!” Harry boomed, his smile still plastered on. His jaw ached a bit from the excessive width of the grin. “Why would you think something is the matter?”

    Instead of replying, Hermione strode briskly across the room to Ron’s bed, on which sat Harry’s trunk. She plucked up Ron’s jumper and bit her lip as she picked up the gilt-framed photograph.

    “Oh, Harry, I’m sorry,” she said, all her efficiency gone. She frowned as she gazed down at the picture in her hands, from which a young and very handsome man winked. The subject of the photograph had intense eyes that no sane woman could ignore, and he wore an expression of haughty boredom, although the hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth.

    Hermione set the picture back down on the bed, and then sat on the bed herself. Her face had gone a bit pale and her eyes were somewhat wide as if she had received a shock. “It’s Sirius, isn’t it?” she questioned, loathe to speak the name. “When he was at Hogwarts?”

    Harry nodded, mute. He flopped onto the bed next to Hermione and picked up the picture. Inside it, the photograph of Sirius Black waved and displayed a gorgeous smile, teeth gleaming in a way that was slightly canine. Harry smiled back at it sadly. “I miss him.”

    “I know you do, Harry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pressed you,” Hermione offered. She liked it when Harry shared his feelings as normally he was afraid to open up unless he was angry. She did not, however, feel very comfortable talking to Harry about the loss of Sirius Black, his beloved godfather. The wound was too fresh, the pain too intense to allow anyone to cope with it.

    “It’s not fair, it’s really not,” Harry declared, clutching the picture a bit harder. “He never had a good life! His childhood was miserable, he spent years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit and just before he would have been cleared, just before the Ministry would have finally seen the truth - HE GETS KILLED!” Harry was shouting now, the pain spewing forth in a torrent of rage. “IT’S NOT FAIR!”

    “I know, Harry, I understand,” Hermione replied in a soft, sympathetic voice. She reached out to touch his arm reassuringly but Harry pulled away, his eyes sparkly with unreleased tears, two red spots flaring on his cheeks.

    “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND! YOU CAN’T!” Harry’s eyes flashed dangerously. “HE DIED BECAUSE OF ME! IT WAS ALL MY FAULT, DON’T YOU SEE THAT? HE CAME TO RESCUE ME. HE WAS ALL I HAD!”

    With that Harry pounded his fist against the bedframe, causing the mattress to shake and a pile of Ron’s jeans to fall to the floor. A teardrop slipped from his eye, sliding slowly down his face as Harry turned away from Hermione, his hands in his hair, his face hidden.

    “He deserved better,” Harry whispered hoarsely, drawing a deep breath. He let his breath out in a rush, feeling unreasonably alone, as he had felt all summer.

    Hermione had shifted slightly away from Harry, wary of his flailing fists. She eyed him nervously, though she was very sympathetic. She had liked Sirius a great deal herself and knew exactly what the man had meant to Harry. “Are you –”

    “Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry said, sighing. His throat hurt from shouting but more then that he felt as if he would start screaming again of he was not left alone.

    Hermione seemed to read his mind. She got to her feet, still giving him a sorrowful gaze. “I’d better get down to breakfast. Mrs Weasley will want some help setting the table, no doubt.” She took a few steps towards the door. “Will you be coming down?”

    Harry nodded. “Yes, I’ll just, er, finish my packing and then I’ll come down.” Drawing in a deep breath Harry pretended to shove the hair out of his eyes. “Hm, well, I’ll just be putting these socks away then.” He picked up a pair that appeared to be Ron’s and shoved them in the trunk.

    Hermione still had not budged from the doorway, but was giving him a pitying expression. Harry sighed; the last thing he needed was for Hermione to keep treating him as if he was fragile. It made it harder for him to cope with the loss of his godfather.

    “Is there something more?” Harry asked curtly.

    Hermione blinked. “Ah, no.” She shook her head, auburn hair flying. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

    “Right-o,” Harry replied coldly, turning his back on her. He did not turn around until he heard her footsteps on the stairs. Reaching over he slammed the door. Then he sighed again. He was not mad at Hermione and he knew it was wrong to take out his guilt, sorrow and anger on her, but she was such an easy target.

    “She brings it upon herself,” Harry muttered aloud, slamming his new books into his trunk. “If she would just leave it, not nag! It’s hard enough for me, but she makes it worse.” He smacked down the lid of the trunk, which closed with a satisfying thud, and then he sank again onto the bed. He had left Sirius’s picture out on purpose, not wanting to leave it in his trunk for the duration of the trip back to school.

    He picked up the photograph. Sirius was looking up at him, grinning mischievously as if he had some humourous prank planned. The Sirius Black in the picture was a Hogwarts seventh year. His looks had not yet been stolen by Azkaban prison and a life on the run from the Ministry. Indeed he appeared a heartthrob, someone who would attract girls without even trying. His movements in the photograph were liquid and graceful, and he wore a satisfied smirk.

    “Were you happy then?” Harry questioned the picture. Sirius yawned.

    “Are you...happy now? Are you anything now? Are you truly dead?” Harry asked. In reply the photograph beamed.

    Harry nodded. Talking to a photograph was worthless; it couldn’t answer back and indeed was unaware of it’s subject’s fate. Still, it was the closest thing he had to the real Sirius Black.

    “I, I should have used the mirror you gave me,” Harry informed the picture. His voice shook a little. “You said that whenever I needed to talk to you I could use it, but that night I was just so panicked. I forgot to go get it. If I had...you would still be alive, wouldn’t you?”

    That said Harry gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to give into a crying jag. It would not do to have Ron walk in and catch him sobbing. Angry with himself, he rubbed his eyes.

    “Yeah, you would be alive still,” he whispered to the picture, which continued to grin. Harry nodded grimly and stowed the photograph in his robes, not wanting to be far from it. He had numerous other things which had once belonged to Sirius; Remus Lupin had made sure that Harry received his godfather’s wand, for instance, as well as some other things, but nothing mattered as much to Harry as that picture. He had never known Sirius as a teenager of course, but somehow it was comforting to think of him playful and popular, laid back and handsome; to imagine Sirius before his life had taken a turn for the worse.

    When Harry had met his godfather Sirius had lost all but a shadow of his good looks, although when he had smiled it had been easy to see the handsome man he had once been. He had escaped from the wizard prison, someplace no one had ever escaped from before, and he had gone immediately to Harry’s aid even knowing that doing so could get him recaptured or even killed. Sirius had risked his freedom to save Harry from Peter Pettigrew, a former friend of Sirius’s turned traitor, even though he had nearly lost his soul when dementors had appeared. But that was not all Sirius had done for his godson. He had died defending Harry from Death Eaters when Harry had foolishly walked into a trap. Sirius had been given orders to stay home, but he had rushed to Harry’s immediate aid, and there he had been killed.

    The guilt Harry felt was enormous and weighty. He had found it increasingly difficult to live with himself since the incident. Instead of time healing the loss, the wound had grown more and more painful as every day without Sirius passed.

    Harry had never considered himself an emotional person; he was given to fits of anger, but living under the pressure of fame could do that to a person. His hormones were a bit crazy too, leading him into dangerous territory occasionally. However, he had never felt as weak, as miserable and depressed as he had since the death of Sirius. His friendships had suffered since he rarely felt confident opening up to Ron or Hermione. Both of them had dealt with the loss in their own way, but after a summer of coping both seemed to have accepted it.

    Harry, however, had not dealt with the loss. His dreams took him nightly back to the Department of Mysteries, where Sirius had died. Again and again he watched Sirius fall backwards behind the curtain, a ghost of a smile still playing on his lips, his eyes sparkling with the thrill of the fight. Nearly every night Harry awoke with his heart pounding wildly and the triumphant screams of Bellatrix Lestrange echoing in his ears.

    The slightest thing reminded him of his godfather - Order of the Phoenix meetings, for instance. He was immensely grateful to Mrs Weasley for announcing to Ron, Hermione and himself that their work for the Order was done until they became of legal age. Harry suspected that just setting foot in 12 Grimmauld Place and not having Sirius there would drive him mad. Ron had protested bitterly since Fred, George, Bill and Charlie were members, but Mrs Weasley had set her foot down and refused to budge on her position.

    Hearing footsteps again approaching the door, Harry shook himself from his reverie and cleared his throat. With a quick glance in the mirror to make certain that he did not appear tear-stained, he opened the door.

    Mrs Weasley halted, mid-knock. “Harry, good, I was just about to check on you. Come on, dear and have a bite to eat. Remus is coming by soon with a car.”

    “Lupin is coming over?” Harry questioned, his stomach turning to lead. “How did he get car?”

    Mrs Weasley shrugged, looking a bit sceptical about the whole thing herself. “I don’t know, Harry dear. I do hope Mugdungus hasn’t talked him into using stolen ones!” Appearing a bit distracted at the thought, Mrs Weasley turned and sighed, muttering to herself under her breath.

    Harry followed her down the stairs, deciding that being cooped up alone in Ron’s bedroom would do him no good. He was a bit hungry as well, although he felt guilty about that. Enjoying a hot meal when Sirius was dead seemed so wrong somehow.

    The kitchen was warm and deliciously scented. Mrs Weasley had clearly pulled out all the stops, and Harry saw plates of bacon, stacks of pancakes, a platter of eggs done two different ways, a variety of fruit in bowls, muffins, kippers, toast, coffee and juice.

    As he stepped in Hermione and Ron, who had clearly been engaged in some intense conversation, pulled away from one another quickly. Both exchanged somewhat guilty looks, giving Harry the idea that they had been discussing him. He sincerely hoped that Hermione had not been gossipping about him with Ron and telling Ron that he, Harry, had been upstairs crying over Sirius.

    “Harry,” said Hermione, a little too cheerfully. “All, er, packed?”

    Harry nodded, not so certain that he wanted to talk to her. He gave Ron a sort of stern look, to which Ron blushed, assuring Harry that yes, indeed, they had been discussing him. Before he could say anything about this, however, Mrs Weasley bustled over with a fresh goblet for juice.

    “There you are Harry. Well, eat quickly now, Remus should be here soon and we don’t want to be late,” Mrs Weasley beamed, patting Harry on the head. Harry ducked her second pat but smiled tentatively up at her. Since Sirius’s death, Mrs Weasley had made good on her declaration of seeing Harry as a son. It was she who had arrived at the Dursley’s home on the second week of the vacation - alone, as the Dursley’s were suspicious enough of Mr Weasley - and demanded that Harry remain at the Burrow for the rest of the summer. The Dursley’s had been more then happy to comply. Mrs Weasley had also written to Dumbledore that she and Arthur would be responsible for Harry throughout the school year, and that any notices going out to Harry’s family could be sent to her, along with Ron and Ginny’s.

    “Ron, you’ll want to use your table manners,” Mrs Weasley scolded lightly as she walked past to clean up the dishes. “It’s enough to make someone sick, you eating like that.”

    Ron, who had just stuffed another huge bite of kipper into his mouth, gaped at her, perturbed. Ron had also grown over the summer, though not much, as he was already quite tall. He had filled out a bit as well after spending his two free months practising Quidditch for hours a day. It was his dearest ambition to play professionally upon leaving school, and he had talked about little else over summer holiday.

    Hermione hid a small smile behind her hand, avoiding Ron’s glance. He shot her a dirty look and then turned to Harry. “Er, excited to be going back then?”

    Harry shrugged, taking a small bite of toast. It tasted like paper even though he had been hungry minutes before. “I suppose.”

    “Well, I am,” Ron said. “I can’t wait for Quidditch practice to start. I’ve learned some new moves that I think will surprise the rest of the team. I’ll show you, if you like.”

    “You know, Ron,” Hermione said slowly, as if speaking to someone a little bit daft. “Perhaps Harry has other things on his mind then Quidditch.” She emphasized that sentence, giving Ron a pointed look.

    “Like what?” Ron scoffed.

    “Thestrals,” Harry interjected, perturbed with the both of them. “I’ve been thinking about them a lot, and how you can only see them if you’ve watched someone die. Perhaps I’ll be seeing them even better now, right?”

    Ron paled, mid-chew.

    “Or maybe you don’t want to be talking about that, being as how you were laying on the floor playing with brains when I was fighting Death Eaters,” Harry snapped, a bit more heatedly. He dropped his fork, it hit his plate with a loud clang. “But I suppose I’d better shut up about that, right? Since you are obviously thinking that I’ve gone ‘round the bend because I don’t just get over the loss of my only family. After all, isn’t that what the two of you were whispering about when I came in? How mad I’ve gotten?”

    “Eh, it’s not like that, mate,” Ron replied, holding his hands up as if attempting to ward off an attack. “Hermione just said that you were feeling down, that’s all.” He broke off as Hermione glared.

    “Harry, don’t be so paranoid, we weren’t saying anything bad. We’re just concerned about you, that’s all,” Hermione cut in. “We’re your friends, we just want you to be okay.”

    “I’m not going to be okay,” Harry snapped back, enunciating every syllable. Instead of shouting this time, his voice went quieter and colder, much like Professor Snape’s.

    Hermione frowned, wearing her same expression of pity. “Harry, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to act so uncaring, I just don’t know what to say to you. We’re worried about you, Harry, can’t you see that? If you would just talk to us, open up to us --”

    “Look, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m done,” Harry answered, finishing his last bite of pancake and wearing an utterly cool expression, as if looking unruffled would make him less unhappy.

    Hermione’s eyes begged him to understand. “I know it is difficult for you to share your feelings with us, but we are here for you. We want to help you, Harry.”

    “Damn it! Can’t you just leave it alone?” Harry demanded, smacking his hand down on the table so hard that the dishes clanged and Ron’s juice tipped over. “I said I don’t want to talk about it!”

    “Hermione, just leave it be,” Ron said, patting her hand. Ron had indeed grown over the summer, but his maturity seemed to have outstripped his height. He looked sombre as he stroked Hermione’s hand. Hermione herself looked pale and unsettled, regarding Harry as if he was a bomb that could go off without notice.

     The sight of the two of them infuriated Harry. He felt as if they were shoving their closeness in his face, a visual reminder of the fact that he was losing them. His heart was filled with regret at his outburst but at the same time he was still angry with them, furious that they couldn’t understand what he was going through. They both had families, neither of them had ever scraped through life as the unwanted orphan, nor had either of then had their hopes for a family crushed when their last relative was murdered.

    What was worse is they did not comprehend his guilt. Both of them acted as if Harry had only suffered a death, not that he also had to cope with his regret and his self-hatred. As much as Harry wanted to explain it to them he knew they would never understand. Ron and Hermione always seemed to see the best in him, but Harry knew he was to blame. He had avoided Occulemency because of his personal disagreements with Professor Snape, and because of that Voldemort had been able to trick him. He had also neglected to check with Snape when he had experienced the vision so that the two of them could verify Sirius’s whereabouts. If he had put aside his own fear and petty dislike, he would never have travelled to the Ministry and Sirius would not have needed to come to his aid.

    Mrs Weasley brushed into the kitchen, beaming. If she noticed the glum expression on Ron’s face, or Harry’s intense frown, she said nothing. Instead she started filling another plate with food.

    “Remus is here, we’ll be leaving as soon as he finishes breakfast. That man! He’s gotten so thin over the summer.” Mrs Weasley clucked her tongue admonishingly. “What he needs is a few good meals.”

    “That and good company,” came a voice from beyond her.

    Harry whirled around. There, standing in the doorway, kicking off his boots, was Remus Lupin. His hair was a bit longer then Harry remembered it and just as grey, but the robes he was wearing were rather new in appearance and sported no visible holes or frays. Only his eyes gave away the depths of his own recent suffering; they looked as old as the world and weighted with misery.

    “Remus!” Harry said, pushing his chair back and hurrying over to the older man, who caught him in a back breaking hug.

    “It’s good to see you, Harry,” Lupin beamed as he released Harry. Holding Harry at arms length Lupin surveyed him. “You’ve grown! You’re already taller then James if I’m not mistaken. You look so much like him.”

    “Harry is looking more and more like Sirius as well,” Mrs Weasley remarked, ruffling Harry’s hair, her eyes a bit misty. “It’s good to have you here, Remus.” She too gave Lupin a hug, obviously pleased with his arrival.

    Harry was surprised by her comments; he had never considered himself to be a heartthrob, which Sirius most certainly had been. Nonetheless the words made him proud. He had always been pleased to hear that he was like his father, except when Snape had said it, but he had never really known his father. He had known Sirius enough to know that being told he was like Sirius was an admirable thing.

    “Ron. Hermione,” Lupin greeted as he approached the breakfast table, where Ron and Hermione still sat. They gave him wide smiles, and for some reason Lupin nudged Mrs Weasley and raised his eyebrows.

    “I know, I know, little lovebirds,” Mrs. Weasley beamed, looking very proud. She ruffled Ron’s hair, making it stand up like Harry’s. Ron immediately flattened it down, looking sore.

    “What do you mean, lovebirds?” Ron scowled as he shoved his chair a few inches from Hermione’s. “What are you going on about?”

    “So, Remus, how was the trip?” Mrs Weasley inquired, ignoring her son. She poured a steaming mug of coffee and handed it to Lupin, who took it thankfully.

    After a sip of the coffee Lupin set the mug down. “It was fine, Molly, thank you. I drove in a Muggle car, actually, it’s out front. Impossible! I don’t see how they manage on a regular basis.”

    “Oh, don’t tell Arthur, he’ll be wanting to take it apart and examine it,” Mrs Weasley remarked. “He wanted to get another car after we lost the first one, but I put my foot down and said no. I’ll not be having him bewitching those cars and flying them all over the country, not again.” She shot Ron a scalding look as she said this, to which Ron threw up his hands, obviously feeling attacked.

    “Quite right you are,” Lupin remarked with dignity, although the corner of his mouth perked up in a bit of a smile. He turned to Harry. “How have you been?”

    “Fine,” Harry answered, not caring to elaborate in front of Hermione and Ron. Mrs Weasley was watching him with a worried expression, so he forced a little smile. “It’s, er, taken some getting used to though, you know.”

    Lupin nodded, his expression a bit nostalgic. “Yes, I understand that. Things haven’t been the same for me either. One would think, given that I spent twelve years believing him a murderer, that I wouldn’t miss Sirius so much, but I do. I’ve tried to stay busy with the Order so I don’t spend much time at home. It’s not home without him.”

    Mrs Weasley had tears in her eyes. She sniffed and turned to Ron and Hermione. “I want you two to go up and fetch your luggage and bring it out to the car. Get Harry’s trunk too. Go on,” she added when Ron started to open his mouth, looking cross.

    Hermione scraped her chair on the floor in her haste to leave the room, but Ron walked slowly, clearly wanting to listen in. A stern glance from his mother got him moving a bit faster.

    “You haven’t been staying at Siri - at 12 Grimmauld?” Harry asked, glancing at Lupin.

    Lupin shook his head and rubbed his forehead as if experiencing a sudden headache. “No. I went back right after...well, after, but it was just too hard, so I asked Dumbledore for more assignments. He’s been very good to me, gave me a lot of jobs that probably are worthless, but I’ve kept busy, and the money is good.” He touched his robes, shrugging. “I would give it all up for a moment with Sirius.”

    Mrs Weasley cleared her throat. “I have better go wake Ginny. We need to leave in a minute!” She practically jumped from the table and hurried up the stairs.

    “Don’t worry about her,” Lupin said gently, touching Harry’s hand. “It’s hard for her. I think she feels guilty for always arguing with Sirius, not that it’s any of her fault. The two of them just never saw eye to eye. I can’t blame her for not wanting to listen. He was not a large part of her life, we cannot expect her to feel his loss as strongly as we do.”

    “Hermione and Ron are the same way,” Harry confided. “Hermione treats me like I’m going to snap any minute, she always hovers around, trying not to bring anything up. Ron is worse. He wants me to be his best mate like always, and I can’t. My mind isn’t on it.”

    Confessing all this to Lupin made Harry feel as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from him. He had spend the summer months coping alone with his pain, feeling misunderstood and a little out of kilter. Lupin’s understanding eyes seemed to be sending waves of calm through him.

    “Ron will understand, in time. He and Hermione truly care about you. I think that is why this makes them so uncomfortable. They want to see you happy,” Lupin remarked.

    “I don’t feel like I will ever be happy again,” Harry whispered, his throat constricted. He steeled himself. “Everything seems pretty worthless without Sirius.”

    “Yes, I know,” answered Lupin. He drained the remainder of his coffee. “I can’t promise that it gets better, Harry, because I haven’t experienced that, but I hope it will.”

    “I don’t want it to be easier,” Harry declared forcefully. “I don’t want to be happy. I don’t deserve happiness.”

    Lupin let his breath out slowly, nodding a little. “You feel that way now, Harry, but it’s not forever.”

    “You don’t–”

    Lupin held up a hand, effectively cutting off Harry’s protest. “I do know, trust me, I do. I know what you are going through. I know the guilt you’re feeling Harry, but it isn’t your fault and you need to stop blaming yourself. Sirius loved you, he wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”

    “It is my fault though,” Harry whispered. “I shouldn’t have been so stupid. I should have stuck with Occulemency but I didn’t bother, even when you both told me to. If I had, none of this would have happened.”

    Lupin smiled sadly, shaking his head. “No. Even with your lessons there is too strong a bond between you and Voldemort. He still would have gotten to you somehow, and Sirius could easily have been the bait for a different trap. It does no good to blame yourself. Blame cannot erase time.”

    “But the mirror, the mirror that Sirius gave me!” Harry interjected, not ready to give up his guilt without a full confession. “He told me that I could contact him whenever I needed, and I didn’t bother. I forgot!”

    “You were distraught. You were frightened, confused, desperate,” Lupin answered in his same calm voice. “Do not blame yourself for not thinking clearly after you were shown Voldemort torturing Sirius. You were desperate to help him.”

    Lupin reached across the table, catching Harry’s chin in his hand, making Harry meet his gaze. “I loved Sirius, Harry, and if anyone ought to be assigning blame it should be me, because I allowed him to go to your rescue even knowing that he might meet his death. It was not your fault, do you understand? It was not your fault.”

    Harry blinked back tears and nodded. What Lupin had said was clear to him, but he still felt a nagging suspicion that he could have done more to save his godfather.

    “I still have those mirrors, both of them,” Harry said after a moment. “I took Sirius’s from his house when we left there. I should give you one so we can stay in contact. I mean, you’re pretty much my godfather now.”

    Lupin smiled, his eyes still teary. “That means a great deal to me, Harry, but truthfully I don’t think we will need it.”

    Why?” Harry questioned. “You are going to keep in touch?”

    “Yes, of course,” Lupin answered. “Hasn’t anyone told you?”

    Harry shook his head, confused. “Told me what?”

    Lupin raised his eyebrows. “I’ll be going where you’re going. Dumbledore has offered me my old job back. I’ll be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts this year, at Hogwarts.”

    “Are you serious?” Harry asked, his heart leaping.

    Lupin nodded, smiling. “Yes, quite. I told you that Dumbledore has been finding jobs for me to do and you know how he always has a time of hiring teachers for the post anyway. It’s perfect.”

    “I thought you said, when you left before, that it wasn’t safe,” Harry questioned.

    Lupin nodded. “I was concerned about that but Dumbledore has made arrangements. Professor Snape has kindly agreed to resume making my potions, and Dumbledore swears that he won’t allow me to miss a single night. Personally, I bet he has rigged my quarters up with some sort of protection, as he isn’t one to take chances.”

    “I’m glad you’re coming back. You are the best Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher we’ve had,” Harry told him.

    Lupin grinned. “I’m glad to hear you say that. So, shall we get the trunks in the car then? I hear footsteps on the stairs, it must be time to go.”