Promises Unbroken

Promises Unbroken

Chapter Nine: Times of Terror

Back at Hogwarts, life went on. The unsuccessful ambush was pasted all over the Daily Prophet's headlines--the famous James Potter had survived again. Reporters had started calling him "The Immortal," and it was well known that the leading Auror solidly held the second highest place on Voldemort's hit list, outranked only by Albus Dumbledore, the only man the Dark Lord feared to face and who had single-handedly pulled the Wizarding world back from the edge of the abyss four years before. Over the years, Harry's father had been a constant thorn in Voldemort's side, and now it seemed that he'd become a target once more. But as the weeks flew by, even Voldemort's deadliest couldn't bring him down. There were several incidents that came close enough to set Harry's teeth on edge (punctuated, as they were, by Malfoy's inevitable comments about how his parents' days were numbered) but nothing came to pass. So Harry remained safe at Hogwarts, struggling to pretend that all was right in the world.

His first Quidditch match--versus Slytherin, no less!--made that shamefully easy to do. Harry's phenomenal natural skills made him even better than his father, who had very nearly gone on to play professionally, and while no other first year had made their House team, he'd become Gryffindor's starting Seeker. His first match had been nothing short of exhilarating, despite the three broken ribs he'd ended up with after a rather intimate encounter with a very well aimed bludger moments before he caught the snitch. Another bludger had cracked Fred Weasley's head open, putting both Gryffindors into the hospital wing while their teammates celebrated, but even that could not dull the joy of having got one up on Malfoy's House. Quidditch was, in many ways, the Hogwarts representation of the war outside. Right now, the light (Gryffindor) and just moved ahead of the dark (Slytherin) for the first time in years. Maybe the real world wasn't so black and white, but then again, they were still young.

Even Hogwarts, though, was not immune to the changes outside, and tragedy struck close to home for the Gryffindor first years midway through November. Moments before the morning mail's delivery, Professor Fletcher led a very confused Neville Longbottom from the Great Hall, telling the boy gently that he had family there to see him. Moments later, with the arrival of Hermione's copy of the Daily Prophet, they found out why.

LONGBOTTOM CAPTURED

Early yesterday evening, a team of Aurors, led by veteran Frank Longbottom,

conducted a raid on a suspected Death Eater meeting place just south of

London. The supposed meeting turned out to be a trap, and six Muggles were

killed in the ensuing battle between the five Aurors and the Death Eaters, of

whom witnesses report there were at least a dozen.

Longbottom, an Auror since 1976, managed to get his team out--but at great

cost to himself. When acting as a rear guard for Ernie Jordan, Virginia Wilson,

Sam Ackerley, and Oscar Whitenack, Longbottom was cornered by several

Death Eaters. Reports say that he tried to turn his wand on himself to avoid

capture, but was stopped before he could take his own life. Rumors say that

Longbottom has been taken to Azkaban, formerly the Wizard's Prison, and

now the headquarters of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

There is not much hope for rescue. Arabella Figg, the Head of Magical Law

Enforcement comments that "Frank is a good man and an exceptional Auror.

Of course, we will do everything within our power to free him...but do not

expect miracles. All that can be done, will be."

To this day, no one has escaped Azkaban. Repeated Ministry efforts to

breach the island fortress' security have all failed, although there are rumors

of a top secret organization named "The Order of the Phoenix," which as also

been working tirelessly towards this end. However, there is nothing known

about this "order" aside from its name and that it has allied with certain

members of the Ministry in the fight against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Frank Longbottom's wife, Alice, also an Auror, could not be reached for

comment. The couple has one son, Neville, who has entered his first year

of education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He is eleven.

"Poor Neville," Hermione breathed.

"Yeah," Ron replied, glancing at Harry, who blinked. Of all his friends, he best understood the hopelessness of the situation; Harry knew that his father had been struggling for years to find a way to crack Azkaban open, but had never found success. Doing so would have been a miracle.

"I hope Neville'll be all right," Harry finally replied, wishing that there was more to say, but there wasn't.

There just wasn't.

Neville missed their morning classes, and all the afternoon ones, too. In fact, he didn't come to the boy's dormitory that night, leaving Harry, Ron, Dean, and Seamus to worry alone. The next morning, they learned that Neville had gone with his mother and his grandmother for a few days; it was two days before he returned to Hogwarts. When he did, Neville, who had always been a quiet (although undeniably bright) boy, was even quieter, and was definitely distracted. He started getting forgetful and even clumsy, at times (which he hadn't' been before), and the Gryffindor first years had to go out of their way to ensure that disaster didn't follow Neville around too closely. They didn't mind, of course, because that was what friends were for, but as a week passed, keeping their companion out of trouble got more and more difficult. Neville just didn't seem to care. Potions, of course, was the worst.

Everything had been going fine. Looking back on it, Harry would have said that things had been going too well, and something had been bound to happen. For once, though, Malfoy and his henchmen hadn't been taunting the Gryffindors (although Harry was sure they had some ulterior motive for that), and class was almost over. Just a few more ingredients and they would be finished--

Without explanation, Neville's cauldron dropped to the floor.

Crashed would have been a better word. Crashed and splashed, all over the place. The boiling green liquid hit Harry, Ron (who fortunately blocked Hermione from being sprayed), Dean and--of course--Professor Snape. It had to hit Professor Snape. Right in the back of his expensive silk robes.

Predictably, the Potions master spun, his face tight with barely concealed fury. Immediately, his black eyes centered on Neville, who flinched under the pressure from that remorseless gaze. Snape's lips curled back in a snarl before the deputy headmaster gained control of his features, and his words came out in a clipped, bitten-off manner that hardly even tried to hide the contempt the wizard was feeling. His eyes flashed as he snapped:

"Is self-control a bit too much to ask from you, Longbottom? Have you no situational awareness whatsoever?"

Neville looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. "I'm sorry, Professor," the boy replied unsteadily. "I wasn't paying attention..."

"Of course you weren't paying attention!" Snape sneered. "I should expect no less from one of your family. The whole lot of you seems to be inept and incapable."

Neville went white. Hermione gasped. And Ron cursed under his breath in a way that was decidedly contrary to anything his mother had ever taught him, while Harry couldn't help but stare. For a moment, he could have sworn that the sneer on Snape's face wavered ever so slightly as Neville Longbottom's lower lip trembled, but the Potions master kept his spiteful eyes on the young boy, daring him to contradict the deputy headmaster of the world's oldest school of witchcraft and wizardry. Of course, given the emotional roller coaster that Neville had been on for the last week, there was no chance of that--and after a moment's half-hearted struggle to meet the cruel professor's gaze, Neville turned away. With a shudder, he bolted out of the classroom.

For a moment, none of the first-years knew what to do. Neville's actions seemed to surprise even Snape, and Harry turned to Ron, taking advantage of everyone's astonishment. Their eyes met, and his red-haired friend nodded, understanding. Oddly enough, Snape didn't move as Ron followed Neville out the door, or as Harry stepped forward to keep him from doing so. An uneasy silence reigned in the potions classroom, until Snape's eyes narrowed suddenly and he turned to the Gryffindors.

"Clean this mess up," he snapped irritably, turning away. Slowly, the Potions classroom came back to life, and even as he bent over the puddle on the floor, Harry could hear Malfoy and his friends snickering about Neville's cowardice. As usual, Snape let them get away with it.

Amazingly, though, he never said a snide word about it.

------------

Neville would be all right, in the end; for the quiet, newly frightened and lonely exterior hid a strength that few would have foreseen. And in the end, he never forgot the friends who cared for him in those days, such as when Ron chased him down and brought him back to the Gryffindor common room, where his fellows brought him back out of his shell with laughter and jokes--hadn't everyone, after all, been a victim of Snape's tyranny at least once? A slimy git, he was, a good for nothing bastard who shouldn't be allowed to teach. Everything would be all right, in the end--they assured him of this with light-hearted smiles, even though they were far from sure of it themselves. But friends were for the bad times along with the good, and they stood by him. Hermione went so far as to tell Professor Fletcher, their distant and cool head of house--but nothing, unfortunately, came of that, although they hoped the headmaster had had words in private with Professor Snape. Harry assured them that he would. Remus Lupin was simply that sort of man.

All in all, the incident was almost forgotten as the six Gryffindor Misfits struggled to avenge themselves on the professor in anyway they could, and even Neville laughed in the next potions class, when the blackboard began telling Snape (among other things) that he was an ugly, greasy, and slimy git, unfit to tread the sacred grounds of Hogwarts' dungeons. Slytherins, the blackboard claimed, were in general a bunch of back-stabbing and whining dimwits who were stupid enough to think that power meant something. They also, the blackboard declared, knew nothing of friendship. Then it went back to colorful insults (colorful, of course, in more ways than one, because they hadn't simply enchanted the blackboard to be rude; they'd used a rainbow of colors to display their creative language). Nothing could stop the blackboard, either, until the spell ran out twelve hours later. It ended in detention, but as the Misfits decided, it was a prank well worth paying for.

In retrospect, if Snape hadn't given them detention, he might have ended up in a lot less trouble.

------------

Midnight.

A time for illegal acts, illicit meetings, and prowling around without notice. The dead of night has always held allure for those who desire to avoid attention. The darkness and the stillness breed security, and both aid in creating fear. Not for naught do Muggles call such times the Witching Hour, for throughout history, witches and wizards alike had made skilled use of the dead of night. For good or for evil, midnight is the ideal time. For murder or mayhem, there is none better.

The oldest of the Misfits had found out the latter in their first year. The youngest were currently discovering the former.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had just been released from a nasty detention with Professor Snape, and they meant to make the best of their time. They were up anyway, and for some reason, Snape had let them out early. Such kindness, if it could be called that, was unheard of. So they meant to create mischief in payment. After all, the deputy headmaster was an ugly and bad-tempered git who deserved no less. They'd thought a few of the nosier plants out of the greenhouse would make a fine addition to his office (which Snape had vacated the moment he'd set them free), and they were off to make good that decision. Professor Sprout, kind and trusting individual that she was, never locked Greenhouse Three up. That knowledge, Fred and George had put to good use the year before, and had been kind enough to share with their younger counterparts.

Harry was only hoping to find a plant that bit. Preferably hard. He could only imagine the look on Snape's face when such a plant sunk its teeth into the Potions master's silk-clad rear... With a grin, he shrugged the thought away. There would be time to enjoy that later. Now, they had to get in the greenhouse and find what they were looking for---no easy feat when trying to hide three people, no matter how young they were, under one invisibility cloak. As usual, Ron trod on his right foot, mashing his toes into goo, and Harry stifled the urge to curse. "Ron! Be careful!"

"Sorry."

"Will you two both be quiet?" Hermione hissed. "We're going to be heard!"

"There's nobody around to hear us, 'Mione," Ron retorted.

"Really?" she demanded, gesturing towards a cloaked figure making its way across the lawn. "Then who is that? And don't call me 'Mione. My name is Hermione."

"Geez, sorry," Ron replied. But he didn't sound very regretful.

"Shhh!" Watching the dark shape, Harry quieted them both. He kept his voice in a whisper. "I think that's Snape!"

"Great. Just what we need," Ron groused. He tugged on Harry's elbow. "C'mon. Let's go."

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Hermione beat him to it. "Go?" she asked, reading Harry's mind. "Why would we want to go? Let's see what he's doing."

"Why?" Ron asked.

Harry grinned. "Good question," he replied, even though he knew that wasn't what Ron was asking. "Why is he out here?"

"Especially at this time of night," Hermione added.

"Who's that?" Harry's sharp eyes caught sight of a second figure.

"Where?" Hermione asked.

"There!" Ron pointed at the second figure, also cloaked, who was emerging from just inside the shadow cast by the courtyard's main gates.

"Don't point, Ron!"

"Really, Hermione, you'd think we weren't under an invisibility cloak or anything," the redhead retorted.

Harry knew she was blushing. "Oh. I forgot."

"Will you two both be quiet?" Harry demanded, watching the two figures meet. It was hard to tell from so far away, but he thought they were both male--and he was still certain that the first one was Professor Snape. He strained his ears to hear them speak, and could tell that his companions were doing the same.

Snape approached, and the other figure spoke in shaky voice. "What took you so long?"

"My affairs are none of your business," the deputy headmaster snapped irritably. "Be thankful that I have consented to meet you at all."

"Our Master doesn't...take kindly...to waiting..." the other stuttered.

"Our Master, Quirrell, is well aware of the demands on my time," Snape replied archly.

Hermione gasped even as Harry felt his blood run cold. There was only one person they could possibly be talking about---

"I refuse to take the blame for your lateness," Quirrell snapped. "Anything that happens will come down on your head alone!"

"Shut up, Quirrell."

The Dark Arts professor jerked up short. Even from far away, they could see his body go tense. "You have--"

In one smooth motion, Snape reached out, grabbing the smaller man by the front of his robes and shook him hard, cutting Quirrell off in mid-sentence. "I said to be silent, Quirrell," he snarled. "Unless you would care to contend with my wrath before facing the Dark Lord." The Dark Arts professor shrank back, and Snape continued acidly. "I assure you, if that should happen, that any penalties for being late will be yours to deal with, as you explain to our Lord how you angered me enough that I was obligated to discipline you before you came into his presence."

Quirrell stared, and so did they. Harry had always hated Snape, but he'd never heard him sound so...dangerous. Obviously, though, the Dark Arts professor had, and it frightened him into trembling silence. After a moment, Snape's hand moved to Quirrell's shoulder, and he dragged the other forward. "Come," he demanded harshly. "We are expected."

Together, the two professors stepped through Hogwarts' gates, and then they were gone. The trio stood in silence for a moment, broken only by Hermione's whisper. "My God," she said. "Could they be...?"

"Death Eaters," Harry said grimly. He felt cold, but there was nothing else it could be. There were no other possible explanations. He didn't want to believe it. "They're Death Eaters."

"Two professors?" Ron said incredulously. "I mean, my dad always said that Snape was one of them, but Quirrell? I'd think he'd be too scared for that kind of thing. This is unbelievable."

"We have to tell the headmaster," Hermione said decisively.

She was right. Harry threw the cloak off; it served no purpose, now. Quickly, he stuffed it into a pocket. "Let's go."

------------

Entering the castle, the trio realized immediately that they had problems. First of all, none of them knew the way to Professor Lupin's office, and it wasn't as if they could simply walk up to a professor to ask--a clock on the wall told Harry that it was well past midnight, now. Also, there was no foreseeable reason why the headmaster would be in his office at his hour; he'd probably be in his rooms, but they had no idea where those were, either. For several long moments, they bumbled around the castle aimlessly, wondering if they'd run into any professors (at the moment, they weren't feeling especially picky, and the only two that they surely wanted to avoid were definitely not in the castle right now), but the castle was abnormally quiet. On any other night, they might have been grateful for such silence, but right now, it made life much harder.

So did Filch's appearance.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione came around a bend in the hallway, desperately searching for anyone who would believe them, when Ron very nearly stepped on Mrs. Norris. And where the cat was, Filch was soon to follow. Ron cursed. Mrs. Norris yowled.

Instinct said to run, and all three spun to do so, until Hermione grabbed Harry's arm (he was closer), and cried, "Wait!"

"Are you bloody crazy?" Ron demanded, stopping abruptly and staring at her as if she'd lost her mind.

"No," Hermione rolled her eyes. "Think about it, Ron. Filch can--"

"Well, well, well..." the familiar voice stopped her in mid-sentence, and all three turned to face the caretaker, who held his cat in his arms. "Students out of bed after dark...I wonder what they are doing, my sweet?"

Mrs. Norris meowed.

Hermione tried to smile. "Actually, we were looking for a professor--"

"Sure you were," Filch snapped, his voice high and angry. "More likely you were looking for another way to destroy all the hard work that I do, cleaning this castle from floor to ceiling! Why, I wouldn't be surprised if the three of you are in cahoots with the infernal Weasley twins--" The caretaker suddenly blinked, then cut himself off in mid-rant. "Come with me, you three. Professor Fletcher can deal with you."

There were times when he wondered about Mr. Filch. Harry opened his mouth to object, but stopped short as Hermione kicked him in the shin. Turning to glare at her, he realized with a start that she was right--they'd been looking for a professor, anyway, and Professor Fletcher used to be an Auror. He'd know what to do, and he'd also know how to find the headmaster. Therefore, the trio followed Filch much more meekly than they might have otherwise, and waited patiently in the hall as the caretaker ducked into a room. Moments later, their head of house appeared.

Mundungus Fletcher had blond hair and green eyes, and might once have been called handsome. However, it wasn't the scar on the right side of his face that made him ugly--and ugly he was--rather, it was the eternally hostile and cold expression he always wore. Before his capture, Harry had heard that he'd been a kind and light-hearted man, given to laughter, and on occasion, joking, but now he was nothing of the sort. His eyes had become like green ice and were forever haunted by what he had experienced in Voldemort's hands. No one in Gryffindor (or in all of Hogwarts, for that matter) could ever say he wasn't fair; Professor Fletcher was fair to a fault, and never played favorites. But nobody had ever accused him of being nice.

And he wasn't exactly well liked, either.

Harry, however, had never been so happy to see the ex-Auror as when Professor Fletcher, his short hair standing on end and covertly blinking away sleep, stormed into the hallway, demanding, "What the hell is going on here?"

Filch smirked, and Harry decided to let Hermione answer.

"Professor, we were outside and--"

"What were you doing outside?" Fletcher cut in, frowning.

"We were coming back from detention," Ron answered promptly. "With Professor Snape."

"Outside?" Unfortunately, the head of Gryffindor didn't miss much, and Harry watched Hermione 'accidentally' trod on Ron's foot. Hard.

"Sir, why we were outside isn't important," Harry said quickly, covering up Ron's soft and none-too-masculine squeal. "What's important is that we saw Professor Snape and Professor Quirrell leaving the castle...and they were talking about the Dark Lord. They sounded like they were Death Eaters, sir."

Fletcher's eyebrows shot up so quickly that they almost hit his receding hairline. "Did you now?" he asked calmly. "Are you sure you saw what you thought you saw, Mr. Potter?"

"Please, Professor, we need to see the headmaster," Hermione cut in.

"They left, but we don't know when they'll be back," Ron added, and Harry nodded, trying to support his friends.

Fletcher studied them all carefully, his eyes dark and his face cool. Under his gaze, Harry had to fight down the urge to squirm restlessly--they were wasting so much time! If he knew the way, he'd have already been running for Professor Lupin's office. Since he didn't, though, all they could do was wait, and hope that Professor Fletcher believed them. The look he was giving them, however, did not make it seem so. His cold eyes were dark, and showed none of the urgency that Harry knew they should. We're not just stupid kids, he wanted to cry. We're not making this up. After a long moment of silence, the ex-Auror finally spoke.

"Very well," he said gruffly. "Come with me."

Professor Fletcher's long strides were hard to keep up with as they made their way through the hallways; somewhere along the way, Filch peeled off from their impromptu group, undoubtedly off to make more rounds through the castle in search of other troublemakers. Harry spared a moment to think of Fred, George, and Lee, and hope that they finished whatever they were planning before the caretaker happened upon them--but he really didn't have time to think of them. There were much larger matters to occupy his mind, at the moment, and for once, he was thankful that Professor Lupin was such an old friend of his father's. Harry knew that the headmaster would believe them; Remus was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and no matter how little his parents had ever told him about Dumbledore's secret organization, Harry knew that Remus was highly-placed in it. And that meant he'd be able to do something about Snape and Quirrell, unlike Professor Fletcher, who just stared at them with dubious eyes and obviously thought that they were overreacting.

Finally, they reached a huge gargoyle, which was set in a recess in the wall. Professor Fletcher stopped there, looking at the stone creature, and saying "Aqueduct." Immediately, the gargoyle swung aside to reveal a spiral staircase, and without a further word, Fletcher led them up the stairs and into the headmaster's office. Beside him, Harry heard Hermione's soft gasp, and he couldn't help but agree. There was something about the room that spoke of Hogwarts' long history, and it was suddenly very amazing to be a part of that.

Portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses decorated the walls; all of them were sleeping, and not a one of them awoke as the transfiguration professor led three students into their midst--except for the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, which seemed to not have been asleep at all. Instead, the portrait of Hogwarts' former headmaster followed them with its uncanny blue eyes, alert and watchful, just like the man who had shepherded the Wizarding world through the last four years of terror. Many said that it was his touch alone that had kept the world from falling across the brink of disaster--but Harry realized he was staring as Dumbledore's handpicked successor came down the stairs, hastily dressed in an old robe. Lupin's features were calm and unreadable, except for the lines around his eyes, Harry would never have guessed that a professor and three miscellaneous students did not barge into his office on a nightly basis. One light brown eyebrow rose expectantly.

"Professor Fletcher?"

The ex-Auror waved the three of them forward, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood together in an uneasy line. Fletcher replied in his gravely voice, "We seem to have a problem, Headmaster."

"A problem?"

"Indeed." Fletcher's head jerked towards the trio in a doubtful manner that made Harry want to scream at him. "These three claim that they saw professors Snape and Quirrell leaving the grounds in a...suspicious manner."

Lupin's blue eyes studied them carefully. His voice was calm, and betrayed none of the unease that he had to feel. "Explain."

Harry exchanged a quick look with his friends, but Hermione's meaningful nod in his direction clearly meant that he was stuck being their spokesperson. He supposed that was a given, since he'd known Professor Lupin for most of his life, but all the same, he wished that Hermione would do it. Professors always believed Hermione. He cleared his throat.

"Sir, we were outside, and we saw Professor Snape and Professor Quirrell. From where we were, we could hear them talking...and what they said made them sound like Death Eaters."

Lupin had reached the bottom of the stairs. "What exactly did they say, Harry?"

And Harry explained, leaving not a word out--Hermione and Ron interjected only once each to clarify matters. All the while, Lupin listened gravely, his face revealing nothing. He asked no questions, and waited until Harry had finished speaking before he exchanged a somber look with Professor Fletcher. Finally, he crossed his arms and let out a soft sigh. "I'm afraid that the three of you are mistaken," he said quietly. "I assure you that, appearances, in this case, can be very deceiving."

Harry felt his jaw drop.

"Professor?" Evidently, Ron was feeling the same sick surprise, and Hermione's eyes were as big as saucers.

"But sir, if this is true, Hogwarts is in danger," she protested.

"Listen to me, you three," Lupin said quietly. His blue eyes met each of theirs in turn. "I realize that you have come here trying to help, and I appreciate the effort. Your willingness to do so, regardless of personal risk, speaks very highly of all of you. However, I must repeat that, regardless of what you saw, you are mistaken. I am well aware of the...circumstances that caused professors Snape and Quirrell to depart the grounds tonight, and both of them have my complete confidence."

Harry felt something cold worm inside his stomach. Although he trusted Remus Lupin--his father's old friend was like family to him--there was something wrong. He could feel it, and he knew it; something was not right. They weren't being told the whole truth.

"Might we ask what they were doing, Professor?" Hermione asked quietly.

"I'm afraid that I cannot tell you that," Lupin replied with another sigh. His blue eyes, usually so gentle and caring, suddenly burned into them. "Furthermore, I must ask you to keep this information to yourselves--all of it. I cannot explain the reasons for this now, but there are many who would think as you do, and you might very well cause a panic in the school by sharing what you have seen. Do you understand?"

Harry swallowed. Something still wasn't right. But all three of them nodded anyway. "Yes, sir."

Behind them, Professor Fletcher grunted meaningfully, and Lupin's eyes flickered up to meet the ex-Auror's briefly. In the momentary silence, Harry fought to control the urge to demand to know what was going on--he was certain that they weren't being told the entire truth. He knew that something else was going on, and despite what Lupin said, he understood exactly what Snape and Quirrell had said. There was only one "Dark Lord," and Harry hadn't spent over half of his life hiding from Voldemort without learning a thing or two about him. His father was an Auror, and Harry knew more about Death Eaters than most kids his age. He knew that he wasn't wrong--he couldn't be! And as much as he trusted Remus Lupin, who had always been like an uncle to him, he knew that there was something going on at Hogwarts.

And he meant to find out what.

"I'm afraid that I must ask all three of you to promise me you will say nothing," the headmaster continued in the same gentle voice. "I will trust your words, but I must have them."

Ron and Hermione replied immediately, promising to say nothing of what they had seen, but Harry hesitated. Something was wrong, very wrong... "Harry?"

The tone of voice was mild, as were Lupin's features, but there was something as hard and cold as steel in Lupin's eyes that Harry had never seen before. A part of his mind rebelled then, wondering how those eyes could belong to the man who had babysat him so often as a child, who had laughingly told him of the Marauder's Map and some of his parents' more embarrassing Hogwarts moments. Remus Lupin had always been the best babysitter, easy to get extra sweets from and always willing to let him stay up just a little bit later--but there was no give in those eyes. That gaze belonged to a side of the man Harry had never seen before, a man who had never had the slightest interest in learning how to back down. Looking into his surrogate uncle's blue eyes, Harry knew he would lose.

"I promise," he said quietly.

Lupin smiled, and the hard look disappeared as if it had never even existed. "Thank you, Harry."