Harry Potter and the Last Goodnight

Harry Potter did not bother to wipe the sweat dripping from his forehead as he turned off the lawnmower and hastily pushed it towards the Dursleys' open garage door. The garage itself was empty. No doubt Dudley was off in his second cruiser, having crashed his first car the day after he'd received his license.

Much to Dudley's dismay, Harry was unimpressed by muggle transportation. A shiny Volkswagen was nothing compared to flying on his Firebolt, which had been sent to him a few days after his return to number four Privet Drive. He couldn't ride it in the muggle world, but had enjoyed cleaning it now that it was back with him. The broom's return reminded him of his easier days of Quidditch and studying. Sometimes Harry liked to be reminded of those days and he thought of them fondly; they were memories of someone else's life.

He had felt like a different person ever since he stumbled out of Dumbledore's office on that sad and tragic night. He could recall the meeting as though it had taken place the night before, not four weeks ago: Dumbledore's explanation, his burden of guilt, his admission of the truth and of the prophecy. And somehow, Dumbledore's love for Harry comforted him in the most miserable and furious moments alone on Privet Drive. And it was love - he knew it was - because Dumbledore had shed a tear over him.

Indeed, he was never completely alone. Even after he'd put the lawnmower away, he could see Aunt Petunia's head stick out the kitchen window. She was peering closely at him with those beady eyes of hers. He did not acknowledge her supervision and walked back out onto the lawn, stretching with his arms held high over his head.

He began doing chores for the Dursleys as a sort of reparation for the many new privileges he'd enjoyed over the past few weeks. He had been allowed to use the telephone, and both Hermione and Ron called him many times during holiday. In fact, Ron loved using the phone that Mr. Weasley had installed in the garage at the Burrow, and he called Harry nearly every other day with nothing to talk about. And usually halfway through the conversation Mr. Weasley would take the phone away from Ron and begin asking him questions about the mysteriousness of muggle artifacts.

Harry had also been allowed to watch television, which he did every morning, but it was only to watch the news as he had the previous summer, only this time he could be on the couch instead of hiding in the flower bed. The Dursleys were not used to his presence in their den, but didn't question him about only watching the news. Aunt Petunia would fold and unfold her hands nervously in her lap every morning. Harry could tell she wanted to ask him about what was going on with Voldemort's return, but the proud and stubborn parts of her would not allow herself to accept the Dark Lord's existence.

Dudley had even let Harry use his punching bag in the basement, along with his pair of old boxing gloves. This had proved the best privilege of all, because Harry had a lot of anger bubbling inside of him, and the best way for him to get it out without shouting at the wall until he was hoarse was by beating the hell out of the punching bag.

His fierce workouts had improved him physically. He was now sporting broader shoulders with a few bicep lines that subtly stuck out when his t-shirts were too small. The yard work had also given him a more masculine physique and calloused hands, and there had been a few occasions when he had seen Dudley's girlfriends glance twice at him. He supposed that the new wardrobe had helped as well - Aunt Petunia had taken him shopping for muggle clothes one day after she'd received a disturbing piece of mail. Harry suspected that the Order may have had something to do with it, especially after Tonks had asked him if his aunt's little shopping spree had cheered him up a bit.

He'd lied to her, of course, and said that the new clothes had made him quite happy and that he even saw a twinge of jealousy in his cousin's eyes. Harry, however, did not care whether the clothes were stylish or whether or not they fit him. Clothes were trivial, and no matter what he wore, it would not bring Sirius back.

At the thought of his late godfather, he quickly sprang back out into the yard, getting down on his hands and knees to remove some stubborn weeds that had managed to escape the wrath of the lawnmower. If he could have used his wand, he'd have been able to massacre the weeds with no problem.

A car drove past Harry, and the bald-headed man inside raised a hand to wave at him. Harry waved back. It was odd to be acknowledged at the Dursleys home. They had convinced the entire neighborhood that he was a troubled student at St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. But after Aunt Petunia had bought him the new clothes and he was allowed to step out of the house without his uncle yelling at him, the neighbors seemed to accept him and had an attitude of friendliness towards him. No one was more surprised by this than Harry.

After pulling up the weeds and throwing them into the trash in the garage, Harry checked his digital watch - another item from Aunt Petunia's generous shopping binge. It was five to two, and he knew that Mrs. Figg would be expecting him for afternoon tea shortly.

Harry wiped his dirty hands on his jeans and walked down the driveway to the sidewalk, where he saw a giant dog bounding towards him. He soon realized that the dog was trailing someone behind it. A young woman, with dark, curly hair, was quietly cursing at the overgrown sheep dog as it spotted a squirrel and took off to the other side of the street. She had managed to gain control over the dog before it could pull into the street. She groaned as she pulled the dog back onto the sidewalk.

Harry grinned and thought about offering her a hand, but decided against it. He was afraid that if he was late, Mrs. Figg would call the entire Order out to Privet Drive to look for him. As the dog passed, he glanced up at its walker.

"Hullo," she said brightly. Her voice was hiding a bit of a very attractive Irish accent. Harry could see her hands' quivering grip as she tried to maintain her control over the dog. He now recognized the mutt as Piers Polkiss's puppy, though he wasn't much of a puppy anymore. He didn't recognize the young lady, however, and from her rather good looks he decided that she was probably not a blood relative of the beefy and repulsive Polkiss family.

"Hi," Harry replied. Forgetting himself, he opened his mouth to offer help to her, but she continued past him without another word, the dog now bounding towards the Dursleys' freshly cut yard. Harry could see her slim figure slip along with the dog, her curls bouncing behind her.

Harry quickly closed his mouth. That was his problem all along. Always wanting to help people. Always wanting to save the day. To save anyone who needed saving - even to save those who didn't.

A new bubble of anger rose in his stomach and he had half a mind to march back to the Dursleys and take his aggression out on the punching bag, but he was already in front of Mrs. Figg's house on Wisteria Walk. Plus, he had the suspicious feeling that she'd already spotted him. There seemed to be at least one member of the order on guard at all times, just as there had been last summer.

He trudged up the driveway and opened the side screen door, not bothering to knock.

"Harry, dear, is that you?"

"It's me," he mumbled, letting the door slam behind him. He walked into the kitchen, which reeked of cabbage, and resisted the urge to plug his nose. "Listen, Mrs. Figg, I can't stay long..."

His voice trailed off. Mrs. Figg was standing at the sink, washing dishes the muggle way, wearing the same slippers Harry had always seen her wear. A familiar face with smiling eyes waved to him from the kitchen table.

"Hello, Harry," Lupin greeted. He looked healthy - Harry was vaguely aware that it had been almost a week since a new moon, which meant he'd had time to recover from his last transformation.

"Welcome back," Harry said, and took only three strides to the table where Lupin stood up and held out his hand for Harry to shake.

There was an awkward pause when Harry was about to sit down and Lupin reached out and gave him a hug. Harry pushed his shame and embarrassment into the pit of his stomach and attempted to return the gesture, but he couldn't do it. He stood stonily with no expression, fighting to show no sign whatsoever of what he was feeling.

Lupin didn't seem to notice and gestured for Harry to sit down. Grateful for the end of the uncomfortable hug, he plopped down into a chair and Lupin did the same. Mrs. Figg bustled into the cupboard and pulled out a package of cookies that looked like they'd come from a Muggle grocery store, but Harry couldn't be sure.

Lupin hungrily took a cookie and ate it in nearly one bite. Harry didn't have much of an appetite and merely watched him. His hair was a tad grayer than the last time Harry had seen him, but he was a lot less hairy. His light brown eyes were shining brightly. "You look good, Professor Lupin," he said.

"Please, Harry. I think it is time to end the formalities. Call me Remus," Professor Lupin replied, smiling, although Harry found himself doubting that he would ever be at ease calling Professor Lupin Remus. "And I thank you for the compliment. I feel good, for the first time since..." He glanced at Harry's scar, and then went back to munching another cookie. "Well, for awhile."

Harry did not meet his eyes and thought of shoving a cookie in his mouth only because then he wouldn't have to speak. He could feel Lupin searching him for any sign of emotion - any sign of weakness. Harry would not give it to him.

"You look different."

Harry looked up inquisitively. "I'm sorry?"

"You look like..."

Lupin's pause made Harry's head spin. If he was going to say "James," Harry had half a mind to reach across the table and slug him in the face. Couldn't he sense the absolute heartbreak inside of Harry? Couldn't he see how hard everything was for him? How day-to-day activity was treacherous? How he threw himself into work merely for the distraction of the pain he suffered every time he looked in the mirror?

"You look like a man," Lupin stated.

"Er..." Harry didn't know quite what to say. He didn't know if he should feel flattered or thankful. Feelings were his problem in the first place. "I... Well, I..."

Lupin held up a hand to silence him. "I know it has only been four weeks, but you've grown. In many different ways." He searched Harry again, staring from the tip of his unruly hair to his toes sticking out of his sandals. "I daresay you are a man, Harry."

"Oh Remus, you stop that now," Mrs. Figg scolded. She returned from the stove with a pot of tea and the Daily Prophet. Mrs. Figg always gave Harry her copy to read at night. "He is not a man yet."

"Manhood is not a title one gives to someone else," Professor Lupin said. "Manhood is simply there. It's visible. I can see it in your eyes. It's the way you carry yourself, Harry."

Harry turned away. At first flattered by the comment, he did not want to feel like a man. He didn't know how he could possibly look like a man when he felt so childish on the inside. He felt like a little boy.

"He doesn't need to be hearing that right now. Filling his head with such gall..." But when Mrs. Figg turned away, still muttering to herself, Lupin winked at him.

And for a moment, Harry thought that maybe he could be at ease with Professor Lupin again. He was still a friend, and he had gone through a considerable amount of pain, just as Harry had. He could trust Lupin. He always had.

"So what have you been up to?" Harry asked, nonchalantly.

"I visited with Hagrid for a time. He's got a handful of trouble in that forest, all right. He's such an affectionate old chap." Harry did not hide his smile. He had seen Hagrid's half-brother, Grawp, firsthand, and experienced some of the damage a sixteen-foot, substandard giant could do. "Madam Maxime has been with him for most of the summer. The two of them wanted to go back to the mountains again, to see what could be repaired with the other giants, but Dumbledore wouldn't let them." Lupin's eyes grew dark. "I'm afraid it's too late for them."

"And after Hagrid's and collecting some potion from the most generous Severus Snape," Lupin paused to snort, "I went back to the Grimmauld Place. We only had a few days before Narcissa Malfoy would be using every sort of magic to find the House of Black, with help from Kreacher, of course. We had to clear the place out."

Harry's stomach flip-flopped. What he wouldn't give to strangle that house elf. But when his rage subsided, what Lupin was saying started to sink in. He was glad he would never have to return to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. The memory of Sirius was fresh there, in the House of Black. "Malfoy's mum?" Harry questioned. "I don't understand."

"Well, with... with Sirius truly gone..."

Harry heard a small gulping noise, and he was quite sure it had come from him.

"It is only a matter of time before the house turns against the Order and reveals itself to the true owner, who would, indeed, be Narcissa Malfoy, Sirius's cousin. Of course, in all probability, it could also go to Bellatrix Lestrange, but she is on the run, and it would be quite foolish of her to attempt to use the house. We were hoping that it would somehow end up in Molly's care, but it appears the house has already made its decision..."

Harry's fury was boiling inside of him. He felt he soon would explode. He wanted to throw a tantrum. He wanted to scream at Lupin to stops speaking of these people: Sirius, Kreacher, the Malfoys, or Bellatrix. He couldn't take another word. If he heard anymore, he thought that surely he would explode from the inside and his heart would crack.

"I think that's quite enough for one day, Remus," Mrs. Figg said. "The boy doesn't need to hear everything."

"He is not a boy, he is a man..."

"That is not for you to decide!" Mrs. Figg cried, strands of hair falling loose from her hairnet.

Clearly taken aback by Mrs. Figg's outburst, Lupin stopped his tale of the past month. "He asked, so I answered."

Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to know everything. He didn't know if he wanted to be left in the dark. Everything in his life was clouded by uncertainty. Perhaps it really was a mistake for him to drop by Mrs. Figg's this afternoon.

The kitchen fell into silence, and though it was awkward, Harry did not interrupt it because he no longer wanted to speak. He stared blankly out the window and watched as the young woman who he'd met on the way to Mrs. Figg's house ran passed, the dog pulling her behind him.

"Poor mutt," Lupin said, following Harry's gaze. "I suspect he's been tied up since the day after those muggles brought him home. It's about time he had a walk."