Work Text:
The address matches the one on the letter: 15 Egret Place, a little house in a town that's barely a town at all. The brownish-red paint on the front door is faded and peeling, and a narrow spider's web trails from the tarnished brass knocker to the doorframe.
Harry hesitates, then raises his arm slowly and knocks three times.
Waits.
A long moment passes in silence. He scratches his neck, glancing around uncertainly. Maybe he moved, Harry thinks, or maybe it's been so long that he's already—
Something shuffles on the other side of the door. When the door unlocks with a click, Harry has to make an effort not to reach for his wand. He only just manages to avoid flinching as the door eases open. At the sight of the harmless-looking man behind it, he feels silly for having worried.
"Hello," Harry says. "Sorry, I'm—I don't suppose you're Mr. Lupin?"
He needn't have asked. Harry knows those eyes, even through the pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and he knows that patient yet worn smile. The resemblance is strong enough that he feels something sink down through his gut, something that tugs painfully at his heart on the way down. It's different from the sort of wistful sadness that strikes him when he looks at old photographs or wanders through the war memorial. This is a melancholy he hadn't anticipated, and its suddenness sharpens the sting of grief.
"Lyall, please." Lyall's eyes—not Remus's, Harry tells himself—crinkle at the corners, his gaze warm and somehow understanding. His attention doesn't drift toward the scar, though Harry suspects it doesn't need to. "Ah, where are my manners! Come in, come in."
The first thing to come to Harry's attention as they walk down the hall, apart from the furry thing darting through an open doorway, is the smell of parchment and lit candles. He's struck with the distinct and inexplicable impression that Lyall owns a number of maps and encyclopedias. Strangely, that thought dulls the pain in his chest and eases the pressure behind his eyes. He hadn't even realized how close he was to crying. Flushing with embarrassment, he blinks rapidly and suppresses any potential sniffling.
Harry finds himself seated on an overstuffed living room couch as they wait for the kettle to boil in the next room. He isn't in the mood for tea, really, but Lyall insisted. With any luck, it will make him less of a jittery, emotional mess.
"Should only take a moment or two," says Lyall. He lowers himself into a nearby chair with a sigh.
It occurs to Harry just then that Lyall Lupin is undoubtedly older than he appears, a trait opposite of one his son had. The wrinkles lining his face aren't as deep as they should be, and the frailness of old age is hardly present in his smooth yet deliberate movements. It's a phenomenon Harry has witnessed plenty of times before: he's still in awe of McGonagall's grace, Hagrid's strength, Augusta Longbottom's tenacity. He supposes witches and wizards must age well in the absence of monthly trauma.
"Sorry," Harry says. "For just showing up. I was going to owl, but, erm. Wasn't sure what to say, really." Not that he has any idea now, he doesn't add.
Lyall waves it off. "Nothing to be sorry about. An old codger like me can't exactly complain about guests. Now—" He folds his hands in his lap. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
The parchment in Harry's pocket weighs on him, like lead or guilt or something equally heavy. "I found one of your letters," he begins.
He'd been searching for things to collect, keepsakes for later on. Most of Remus's things had remained untouched, all neatly stored away in their suitcases and stacks. It felt wrong, combing through the belongings of his late teacher and friend, but Harry was—is—determined to have something to give to Teddy, some meaningful connection to the father he'll never know.
There were photos, some of which he kept for himself. He can admit this without shame because the ones he hoarded away weren't of Remus—except for one, but he doesn't think Teddy will miss the solitary photo of Remus holding an infant Harry and glancing nervously at the camera, eyebrows knit with worry, like he's sure he'll drop him.
Lyall's letter had been the last of many, kept in a box and sorted in descending order. Not wanting to pry, Harry had only read enough to confirm his guess: that Lyall was Remus's father.
"So you decided to drop by, hm?" Lyall says after Harry's brief explanation.
As Harry opens his mouth to reply, the kettle finally whistles. He starts, having forgotten all about the tea. The minutes had seemed longer than they really were, he supposes, while he was wrapped up in his own memories.
Lyall excuses himself to fetch the kettle. Alone, Harry takes the opportunity to examine his surroundings.
A quilt hangs over the back of the now empty armchair. The furniture all has traces of fur—possibly too much for one cat. With its bookcases and animate paintings, it looks like a room that could belong to any witch or wizard—except, of course, for the television.
Harry hadn't noticed it before. Now, the smallish and dusty screen has his full attention. It's the first TV he's seen in a wizarding household, or at least the first one he's seen intact—Arthur's is strewn about his workshop in dismantled pieces.
"Afraid I'm out of milk," says Lyall, returning with a mug in each hand. He lowers them carefully onto the coffee table. "I hope that isn't a problem."
"It's fine," says Harry. "I'm not very particular, honestly."
Lyall nods, stirring his own cup distractedly.
A moment passes. Then, "I wondered how much you knew. About Teddy. And his mother."
"Hmm." Lyall sets down his cup and straightens, pleasant smile wiped away. "The last time I spoke with Remus," he says, "his son was two days old. I never met Nymphadora." He purses his lips. "Probably for the best."
Harry stares. "What do you mean?"
"If she cared for my son even half as much as I suspect, she had every right to be furious with me."
"I don't understand," Harry says slowly, frowning.
At first, Lyall just gives him a pitying look, as though he's missed some incredibly important detail that he shouldn't have to be told. Then he sighs.
"Harry, did Remus ever tell you how he became a werewolf?"
"Of course," says Harry. "Fenrir Greyback bit him."
"Did he say why?"
Harry tries to think back, but comes up empty. "I don't think so."
"I insulted Greyback," says Lyall. "Publicly. I damned every werewolf alive, said they deserved to be put to death." He pauses. "Needless to say, he didn't take kindly to that. Remus was—he very nearly didn't make it to his fifth birthday. The punishment for my foolishness."
Four years old. Harry had known Remus was a child when he was bitten, but he'd assumed older, somehow. Four—it seemed too low a number to even be possible.
"I'm sure he didn't blame you," says Harry.
Lyall snorts. "Of course he didn't. There wasn't a shred of hatred in that boy's body. Might've served him better if there had been." He taps his fingers against his knee. "If anyone deserved to resent the world, Harry, it was Remus."
There's no part of Harry that disagrees. The idea that someone like Remus Lupin could show so much compassion toward a world that had done its utmost to ruin him, and remain generous and optimistic and loyal in the process, has always made Harry want to be better than he is. If he could be anywhere near as tolerant as Remus, he'd be better for it.
"He was too good to resent anything," says Harry.
"He was, at that. Do you know, in the span of a year and a half he lost his mother and every one of his friends."
Oh. "I'm sorry."
"So am I." Lyall rubs his eyes wearily. Harry looks away, busying himself with his tea. "After your parents passed away, I asked Remus move back in here. Of course, he refused; didn't want to be a burden." A humorless laugh. "As if a boy's life could be a burden to his own father."
"But you stayed in touch," says Harry.
"We did, thank Merlin." A smile flashes across Lyall's face, small but genuine, before vanishing completely. When he speaks again, it's like the words have become dusty and broken from being locked away for so long. "I tried, you know. To be a good father, make amends for what I'd done. But in less than a month, Remus was ten times the father I'd been in nearly forty years."
"How could you say that?"
Lyall's gaze flicks up to meet Harry's, filled with surprise. "How could I not? He protected his boy, Harry; all I did was condemn mine. It was a small blunder, but one that my family paid dearly for." He lets out a heavy breath. "Easy to forget about responsibility when you're young and ambitious. I don't expect to be forgiven for my mistakes."
"Whatever mistakes you made, or think you made, Remus grew up to be one of the greatest men I ever knew," says Harry. "He believed in people, whether or not they deserved it. He never acted like he was better than anyone else, even when he was, and he was never unfair. And he always cared about what people had to say, even stupid teenagers who had no idea what they were talking about. He told me he was a coward, once, and it was the biggest lie he ever told—no one who lived his life could ever be called weak. And Remus wasn't.
"And if he was only that good because of some horrible accident, then maybe—maybe it was worth it. And I think he'd agree, even though he hated what he was. I think he knew it didn't just make up all the bad things about him, but the good, too. So if you think you made a mistake when you raised him—if you think Tonks would've hated you for making Remus the man that he was—then you're wrong. Sir," he adds belatedly.
The image of Lyall is blurry. It takes a second for Harry to realize he's crying. He takes off his glasses and wipes at his eyes, too overwhelmed to feel embarrassed.
For a while, Lyall doesn't say anything. Harry doesn't look at him; his eyes are fixed on his mug, chipped, with steam still curling over the lip. He remembers drinking tea in Remus's office, years ago. His throat feels thick. Harry coughs into his fist and refuses to cry again.
"Well, looks like I was wrong about one thing," Lyall says.
Harry looks up and sees Lyall looking back, eyes warm.
"What?"
"My son wasn't a father for one month," says Lyall. "Much longer than that, I think."
Unsure of what to say, Harry takes a sip of his tea.
"And I believe he was every bit as proud of you as I was of him."
"You can't know that," says Harry.
"Can't I? He paid me a visit, you know, after he left his position at Hogwarts. Hardly said a thing about that, actually. He seemed more keen on telling me about how one of his third-years could conjure a corporeal Patronus." His expression is fond yet pained. "I doubt he'd have named you godfather if he didn't think the absolute world of you, Harry."
Again, Harry finds himself oddly speechless. He wishes more than anything that Remus were around to tell him these things himself.
"You haven't met Teddy," he says at last.
"No," Lyall says sadly.
"I'll bring him round sometime," says Harry. "I—Remus would want you to know him."
"I wouldn't want to assume—"
"Please," Harry says. "It would mean a lot to him." He doesn't know if he means Remus or Teddy, but either way, it's the truth.
Lyall clears his throat. "I suppose," he says. Then, "Do send his grandmother my regards, won't you?"
"I will," says Harry.
Lyall nods, then seems to hesitate. "There's something I want to give you, actually."
When he brandishes his wand, Harry notes that it's the first time he's actually seen it. Muttering under his breath, Lyall raises his free hand in time to catch the soaring object. It's hard and flat. A picture frame, Harry thinks.
"This was given to me, but I think it would be more appropriate for you to have it," Lyall says, leaning to hand it over.
When he finally gets a good look at it, Harry knows immediately what it is; he's seen enough of them by now. Still, he scans over all the print, his mouth falling open slightly as he reads and rereads Order of Merlin, First Class.
"I can't," he says.
"Take it. It would only collect dust here."
Harry chews on his lip, considering.
"Hang it someplace where everyone who visits can see it," says Lyall. "Let them know my son was a hero."
There was never a chance that Harry wouldn't. He nods.
"I will."
—
Remus,
I understand your fear, but I can assure you it is unwarranted. Firstly, there is no evidence indicating that the offspring of a werewolf will be afflicted with lycanthropy. You know this as well as I do.
Nextly, I will tell you, as a father, that while there is no greater pain than to witness the suffering of one's child, it cannot hope to diminish the love one has for them. And I will add that, as your father, I have never once thought poorly of you. If the child is born with your affliction, I promise you will have the same adoration for it as your mother and I always had for you—as will your wife, and her mother, and all those around you.
You asked for my opinion on your choice for the godfather. Here it is: I have not met the boy, but you speak highly of him, and that is enough for me. You were never one to jump to rash decisions, Remus, much to the disappointment of your school friends. I have faith in your judgement, as always.
With the current state of things, I am aware it would be difficult for you to stop by as often as you used to. I will admit to selfishly wanting you to shirk your responsibilities, at least for a time, but I know you well enough to realise how utterly unlikely that is. You are equally as stubborn as I am.
For what must be the hundredth time, I ask that you be careful. You have more reason to than ever, and that selfless streak of yours will only get you into trouble.
All my love to you and yours,
Lyall