Chapter Text
The day Remus Lupin’s life flipped on its head (this time for the better) started off like any other: rather unremarkably. He started the day at a reading of his latest book, surrounded by Muggle school children, eager to hear the newest Marauder tales. He cherished these times, telling—highly edited—stories of his school days to other kids, sharing the joy and laughter he found in Hogwarts, offering the lessons of friendship and bravery to those in need of it.
Remus started writing fiction for a Muggle audience right after the war. Desperate for closure, desperate to grip the dying light that lingered only in his memories, he poured all the joy he found at school onto paper. At the time, he was struggling to make ends meet working part time in a local bookstore. He shared snippets of his stories to kids that wandered in.
One such child happened to be the child of a publisher, who then encouraged him to publish. Now, seven years later, Remus had written five books in total and was making enough income to live comfortably in his little one bedroom flat. He never expected his books to gain any sort of wider appeal. He never expected kids to devour his stories with zeal. His books were simply a fading testimony to better times.
So he started this day entertaining children with Marauder stories.
Then he collected the mail and set it on the little table by the door of his little one-bedroom flat in south London. It was entirely Muggle. No one knew Remus as a broken down wizard tired of war or a werewolf fighting in his own skin. To his neighbors and to his publisher, he was John Evans, the slightly reclusive, slightly famous children’s author. A quiet sort that kept to himself and didn’t make trouble.
After setting aside the mail for later, Remus then worked on his second source of income: blogs. His publisher had introduced him to the concept, setting him up a computer and telling him to get started.
He had no clue how to get started back then. He wrote about random things. What he saw on walks, what inspired his stories, random fan letters he would get.
By chance, he stumbled on knitting blogs of all things, and reached out to Molly Weasley, offering to put up her knitting patterns and giving her the proceeds. He would edit her patterns and manage the webpage for a small sum. Which is what he was doing now. Molly was working on her alphabet sweaters. She was on the letter M. Remus just had to go through the patterns and make sure she didn’t mention magic.
Molly sent him a new sweater with the letter R on it last Christmas, done up in brown and gold. He couldn’t wear it out, not when everyone around him thought his name was John, but he cherished it in the privacy of his home.
Blogs updated, Remus then moved onto the more arduous task of mail. Arduous only in its sheer magnitude. His publisher wanted him to set up a form letter for his fan mail but he had refused. He would read every single letter he received and he would respond in kind.
To answer his fan mail, he had a system. First, the tea. A wonderfully bracing black tea blend that Lily Potter had shared with him during NEWTS. Second, music. Records of now old music that Sirius Black had smuggled into Hogwarts in the height of his rebellion. Lastly, clearing his desk of all but the letters and paper to respond with.
Then he sat down and he read. And he wrote. And took a sip of tea. Grabbed some biscuits. Read another. Wrote a response. Over and over and over again.
This ritual had been so short when he started, just a handful of letters from the very few who picked up his books and loved them. Then, well, it sort of snowballed. And Remus was unwilling to admit defeat, unwilling to let a child down. He now dedicated several hours a week to do correspondence.
It was during this ritual of correspondence that Remus’ life would take a sharp turn.
He picked up a letter, not even bothering to glance at the sender, knowing it would lay within, and sliced it open with a mahogany letter opener that James had given him so many Christmases ago. He glanced through the contents, taking in the child’s writing with a frown.
It was one of the harder letters. A child who related a little too closely to the loneliness of the main character. The child was requesting he send more copies of his books to a local library, which only had the first two. The child even asked that ‘Mr. Evans’ not respond to his letter as it would only cause trouble at his aunt’s. Not his home. But his aunt’s.
An unusual request, but not impossible. Concerning, yes. Remus had concerns about what the child hinted about his home life.
But what drew all his attention, what stole his breath away, what caused him to spill his tea and choke on a biscuit, was the signature.
Thanks,
Harry Potter
No. No. No. No. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.
Remus scrambled to vanish the tea and snatch the envelope with the address. Harry Potter ℅ Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, Number Four Privet Drive.
Harry Potter.
Harry Potter.
Harry. Cub. Pup. Prongslet. Fawn. Mischief. A thousand little nicknames tucked in the corner of Remus’ mind, each tied with a thousand different memories, a thousand pinpricks of light in the fog of war.
Remus’ hands shook as he stared at Harry’s letter. The child of his best friends, reaching out without a clue as to who he was.
He tried, when the dust settled and grief waned, to find out where little Harry ended up. Sirius was in prison and the Longbottoms in St. Mungo’s and all Dumbledore would say is that Harry was safe. He was hidden and he was safe. And he had to stay that way. After all, Death Eaters still lurked in the Ministry. Best for Harry to keep his location as secret as possible. Only Dumbledore could know.
He tried, but the grief and rage of losing his friends, of winning the war but at the cost of everything, left him aimless and listless. He couldn’t keep jobs, much less a living space, in that first year after. His letters to Harry went unanswered. His letters to Dumbledore said the same. Over and over and over again. Harry was safe. Harry was hidden.
But here Harry was. Writing to a random author to get more books, hinting at a home that was not safe, no matter how hidden.
The Dursleys. That name rang a bell. Remus frowned.
Oh. Aunt. Lily had a sister, Muggle, who married a Dursley. Harry was living with his Muggle aunt and uncle. Lily’s sister. Who refused to come to the wedding. Who called her sister a freak. Who basically disowned her for her magic.
To his left, the teacup shattered.
Remus stood quickly and went to his not-quite-legal enchanted closet, which expanded to a small sitting room, and screamed. Magic rolled off his shoulders in his anger and grief.
Harry wasn’t safe. Harry was hidden but he wasn’t safe.
And he didn’t know Remus. He didn’t know anything about him. Did he know about his parents? Did he have any contact with the magical world? Did he know how much he was loved?
Remus sat on his knees, letting anger and despair and old, familiar grief run its course. He crumbled the edges of the letter but took care not to rip it, not to destroy this shred of knowledge about the one child who meant everything. He let his mind and body scream as his world shifted so harshly. He was familiar with this pain.
And as all times before, the pain faded, the emotions swelled, crested, then released, leaving Remus exhausted. But unlike all the other times, his mind was clear. His goal absolute.
Remus was getting Harry back.
And while his goal was simple, it lacked an actual plan. His instinct to rush over and steal Harry had flaws. The main thing being that said plan was considered kidnapping and highly illegal. That was entirely frowned upon, especially given Harry’s status in the Wizarding World.
He briefly considered approaching Dumbledore with this new evidence, but quickly dismissed the idea. What he had was a letter from a child that hinted at, but didn’t expressly admit to, abuse. Dumbledore would urge caution, would recommend secrecy. He would tell Remus once again that Harry was safe, if perhaps a bit lonely.
Which left Remus finding a legal, Dumbledore-free plan to get Harry back to where he belonged and that…well that was going to require Remus returning to his Marauder days of scheming and pranking.
As the last Marauder standing, Remus would not fail Harry again.