Chapter Text
Location: Potter Manor - Woods
July 20th, 1996 9:40 AM
Lucifer's POV
"Sooo…you're just clearing a space? In the middle of the woods?" Lucifer asked, arms tucked behind his head casually as he trailed behind Remus and Sirius. His eyes swept over the mossy clearing with a squint and a wry frown. "Shouldn't you be resting instead? You look like shit."
Remus didn't answer as he continued shuffling forward, feet dragging through leaves and twigs. His shoulders were hunched in on himself, his eyes sunken, deep bruises decorating them as his face glistened with sweat.
Sirius huffed and shot Remus a dirty look before turning back to Lucifer. He flicked his wand—an old family wand he found in Grimmauld ages ago—to clear some of the larger rocks out of the middle of the natural circle. "I tried to make him stay in bed. But Moony's stubborn."
Said man just gave a weary, heavy sigh, shoulders slumping further. "I should have done this earlier in the week," he muttered, raising his own wand. He swayed on his feet as his hand shook, the magic fizzling as he tried to cast a spell. He groaned and dropped his arm, bracing a hand against a nearby tree.
Lucifer pursed his lips, frowning as he watched Remus carefully. "What are you trying to do? I can help and you can get back to bed," he said, gesturing around the clearing in confusion.
"He wants to put up a barrier that'll stop him from leaving," Sirius answered in Remus' stead, his voice flat. "Even though he took his Wolfesbane Potion."
"I still want to be cautious," Remus mumbled back, pressing his forehead to the bark, more sweat beading against his paling skin.
Lucifer looked around. "But this clearing is…small."
The clearing was an imperfect circle of towering trees and leafy bushes that was barely more than a thirty feet in circumference. The ground was covered in soft moss and clover and dappled by sunlight, but the size left much to be desired.
"Wouldn't it be better to branch out another several dozen feet or so?" Lucifer asked, walking toward the southern edge of the clearing where he could hear the trickle of water. "We could expand toward the brook. It'd give us fresh water and more room to roam around."
"See, that's a great idea, Moony," Sirius said, crossing his arms as he gave Remus a flat look. He tapped his wand against his bicep thoughtfully. "This is nothing for a werewolf. We're making it bigger."
"N-no, that's…not…" Remus trailed off, panting softly as he opened his eyes and looked over at Lucifer, confusion shining behind his exhaustion. "Wait…us?"
Lucifer beamed. "Yup! I'm totally joining you tonight!"
"Ha! Really?" Sirius laughed with a smile, excitement shining in his gray eyes. "That's brill!"
"No, no, that's not…brill," Remus protested, shaking his head. He pushed off the tree, panic creeping into his voice. "I could hurt you, Lucien. I can't—I won't—risk spreading this curse to you."
Lucifer blinked in surprise. "Curse?" He echoed, his expression shifting into something unreadable. "It's not… Wait, is that how you see the wolf inside you?"
"What else could it be?" Remus snapped, tired, frustrated, and afraid. A rare irritation bled into his voice. "I turn into a mindless, bloodthirsty monster once a month. Even with the potion, I could still hurt you."
It was quiet in the clearing for a few heartbeats as Lucifer stared at him. His face was scrunched up in confusion before he shook his head and finally said in a hard, even voice, "Shut the fuck up."
Both Remus and Sirius blinked in shock, completely thrown at how harshly the words came out of his mouth.
Lucifer gestured wildly at Remus with both hands, waving them around as a jumble of nonsense fell from his lips. "You…my friend, are not making any sense right now. Pfft, monster?" He wheezed out a gasp of disbelief. "You're literally not a monster. We've already been over this. Haven't we already been over this?" His gaze snapped to Sirius and raised his brows expectantly.
"Uhh…" Sirius' eyes flicked between Remus and Lucifer, before he nodded his head. "Yeah, Moony—"
"See?!" Lucifer interrupted, pointing triumphantly at Sirius. "Not a monster! Besides!" He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, a smug smile stretching across his face. "I know for a fact that werewolves were created as a blessing. Not a curse."
Remus and Sirius just stared at him. Remus swayed slightly, sweat beading on his brows as he tried to process that sentence. Sirius opened his mouth, a sharp look in his eyes.
"Wait…you act like you've been around since the start of werewolves," he said slowly. "That has to be…thousands of years, yeah?"
"2100 BCE," Lucifer said automatically, giving a shrug.
"Huh." Remus blinked, mouth slightly agape. "You're just…not gonna try to hide that?"
Lucifer tilted his head and pursed his lips in thought. "I mean… You two already know I'm not human and that I'm old."
"Yeah, I thought you meant a few hundred years old," Sirius cut in, disbelief coloring his words. "Not thousands. You're older than Hogwarts, mate."
"I'm older than a lot of things," Lucifer said, shrugging again.
"Wait, wait." Remus took a shaky step forward, amber eyes burning with something dangerously hopeful. "If…if you know how werewolves were created… Then does that mean you can…purify the curse?"
Lucifer's expression softened into a frown before he replied. "Ah, no. No, I can't, Remus. I'm sorry," he whispered, a flash of guilt crossing his face. "Besides, werewolves aren't a curse. They were a gift—a blessing. I wish I could tell you more right now, but…" He paused, rubbing the back of his neck, giving a sigh. "It's tied to who I am."
"I…see." Remus turned his face away, trying and failing to mask the disappointment that settled heavy onto his face. "I shouldn't have asked."
Lucifer winced. "No, it's not that I don't want to help you," he rushed out, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. "It's that I literally can't. The blessing is woven into your magic, your blood, and your soul. If I tried to 'purify' it—remove it—I'd just end up killing you. And I really, really, don't want that. Because I have no idea where you would go afterward."
Remus turned his gaze back to Lucifer, confusion flickering in his eyes.
"What do you mean by that?" Sirius asked, finally finding his voice again.
Lucifer shook his head, a frown pulling down at his lips. "Well, aside from the fact that he hasn't accepted his wolf side, Remus has a pretty balanced soul. So, I have no idea if he'd go—" He pointed up then down and shrugged. Then he gave Remus a curious look—one that felt older than the forest surrounding them—before he blinked and it was gone. "But that's beside the point. I still don't want you to die."
Sirius opened his mouth to press further, but Remus cut him off with a raised hand.
"It's fine." Remus drew in a deep breath before slowly letting it out through his nose. "I'm not sure why I…" He stopped and shook his head. "Back to the original subject. I'm not sure I have the energy to make a barrier that big."
"Well, then I'll do it," Lucifer said with a casual shrug. He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers with a smug smile. "I mean, it's only gonna take me a few seconds and boom! A fancy werewolf barrier that will prevent you from leaving from moonrise to moonset."
Sirius and Remus exchanged bemused glances before Sirius shrugged, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Sure, why not. This I gotta see." He stood beside Remus, wrapping an arm around his waist when he noticed that he looked more unsteady.
Lucifer smirked and cracked his knuckles, a series of small pops echoing through the clearing. "Excellent."
His eyes fell closed as he drew in a deep breath and held it. The clearing was already quiet aside from a few chirping birds or the scurrying claws of squirrels, but as Lucifer stood there, the noises seemed to muffle. A pressure settled over them and the clearing. The air shimmered like a mirage—thick and heavy with power.
Then he clapped his hands together. A golden shockwave burst outward, expanding from Lucifer's body like a rippling tide. It swept over the three of them in a soft whoosh, raising the hair on their arms and leaving a magically charged tingle across their skin. Their magic flared in response, humming like it had just received a power boost.
Sirius jumped, jostling Remus slightly and nearly knocking them both to the ground. "Merlin's bloody b—"
Remus gasped, blinking rapidly as a rush of energy surged through him, like he hadn't been on the verge of collapse moments ago.
"There we go!" Lucifer exclaimed, puffing up proudly. "One werewolf barrier for frolicking under the moonlight."
Remus started at the man, his breathing heavy, a wild energy still thrumming through his veins. "What…was that?"
"Oh, that's just my ang—answer! Yes! Answer, answer magic! That's what I was going to say. Obviously!" Lucifer forced out a laugh, too loud and far too cheerful. "Completely normal. Totally…uh, wizardy."
Remus blinked, then gave him a deadpan look. "Answer magic?"
Lucifer nodded rapidly, his grin growing strained. "Yes! It's uh…the kind of magic that answers…problems?"
Sirius raised a skeptical brow, an amused grin pulling his mouth up. "So…you just clapped your hands, did a little dance, and now you've solved our problem?"
"Yup!" Lucifer chirped. "Crazy, huh?"
Remus narrowed his eyes, the energy still zipping under his skin. "There's no such thing as answer magic, Lucien."
Lucifer clapped his hands again—much less magicky this time—and said brightly, "Moving on! Let's see what Al's been doing, eh?" He quickly spun on his heel and started marching back to the manor before either of them could call him out, humming a cheerful song a little too loudly.
They found Alastor standing just outside the door, overlooking the garden, and seemed to have been waiting for them. A newspaper was folded neatly underneath his arm. He had a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and his eyes sparkled with delight behind his black frames.
"Oooh, someone looks happy," Lucifer teased with a raised brow and tilted smile. "What happened? Someone die?"
Alastor gave an amused huff and shook his head. "Sadly, no. However, our article came in this morning," he replied, pulling the folded Daily Prophet from under his arm and waved it in front of Lucifer. "The continuation from yesterday's exposé."
Lucifer blinked, then grinned, easily snatching the paper from his husband's hand. "Already? Oh, this has got to be good if you're smiling like that."
"We're not going to like this, are we?" Remus asked, eyeing the paper like it might be cursed to grow fangs and take a bite out of them.
"Oh, absolutely not!" Alastor replied cheerfully, flashing a wide smile at his godfathers. "It's truly a dreadful truth—but a truth that needed to be told, nonetheless."
"Oh, shit—this is gold," Lucifer mumbled, wide blue eyes darting rapidly across the page. Then he cleared his throat and began to read aloud.
"Dursleys Speak: 'Our Freakish Nephew'"
By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent
"Yesterday, this reporter revealed the horrifying tale that Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, spent his earliest years in a cupboard under the stairs. A space no larger than a broom closet, soaked in the lingering magical imprint of a small, terrified child.
Today, we hear from the people responsible.
Under magical compulsion, Vernon and Petunia Dursley agreed to be interviewed. What they confessed to was not merely neglect—but true cruelty that strips away any illusion of innocence.
According to Petunia Dursley, Harry Potter (age 1) was left on their doorstep sometime during the night of November 1st, 1981. When asked why they didn't bring in the infant sooner, she responded:
"We never knew he was there until the morning (2nd of November). We opened the door and he was just…there. Wrapped in a blanket with a letter."
Imagine, dear readers: an infant, left on the step in the middle of a cold November night with only a blanket and a simple letter. Not handed directly to his aunt. Not making sure that our hero was safe. Just dumped on a doorstep.
The questions were certainly buzzing within this reporter. When asked what the letter said:
"It said that he (Harry) was in danger. And that if we kept him, we'd be protected."
Curious, this reporter asked what she meant by 'protected'. However, Mrs. Dursley nor Mr. Dursley were aware of what that entailed—only that the letter promised it.
It raised the question: Was Harry used as some sort of magical protection? Did enchantments tie directly into his blood? It's not a far stretch of logic to think that he was placed with his relatives not for care—but as a magical shield.
Still, this reporter must ask: Why the Dursley's?
Why not place the child with his many magical relatives? Why not wizards who understood the trauma of war, the needs of a magical child, or the weight of raising the Chosen One?
Why these two Muggles—who hate magic, loath the boy's parents, and make no secret of their disdain for their "freakish" nephew?
The Potter family, like other many wizarding families, have many familial connections. Including the Longbottoms, the Bones, and the Abbots. Yet Harry was not placed with any of them. He was given to the Muggle sister of his mother and her resentful husband. Why?
To this reporter's surprise, Petunia provided one name.
"Albus Dumbledore."
Yes. Albus Dumbledore, Order of Merlin, First Class, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. One of the most powerful and respected figures in our world.
The very same Albus Dumbledore placed young Harry with the Dursleys. A non-magical family that neglected and abused the young hero.
Unfortunately, dear readers, this was just the beginning.
When pressed about why Harry was forced to live in a cupboard, Vernon Dursley explained:
"We weren't going to waste space on someone like him when it should go to my precious [REDACTED NAME] (son). Freaks deserve to be put in their place."
The Dursleys admitted that their own son had two bedrooms while young Harry was forced to live in the cramped cupboard.
And it doesn't end there dear readers. Harry was treated as a servant from the time he could walk. He was ordered to prepare family meals while given scraps. He scrubbed the floors on his hands and knees, weeded the garden in the summer heat, washed their laundry when he was dressed in oversized hand-me-downs that swallowed his small frame.
And when this reporter asked about discipline, dear readers, what was said is not for the faint of heart. Vernon Dursley confirmed, quite proudly, that he "beat the nonsense out of him" whenever something "strange" happened around his nephew.
"Oh, every time that freak showed an inkling of—of freakishness, we made sure to try and beat it out of him. Lock him in his cupboard with no food for days. Whatever it took to suppress how unnatural he was."
Yes, dear readers, you read that correctly. Every instance of accidental magic—the instinctive, untrained magic common to all young witches and wizards—was met with violence and starvation. A terrified child punished for something he could not control.
Let us all be thankful that they failed. For if they had succeeded, it would have turned our great savor into an Obscurial.
For those unfamiliar, an Obscurial is a young witch or wizard who, through severe trauma and suppression, manifests a violent, parasitical force, known as an Obscurus. Very rare, very dangerous, and very fatal. An Obscurial has not been seen since the times of Grindlewald in America.
This horror nearly befell our savior.
Perhaps the most devastating confession came when asked whether they ever felt remorse for their actions against their nephew, their own blood.
Petunia Dursley answered:
"We kept him alive. That was more than enough."
Vernon added:
"He should've been grateful to even be alive."
These were the guardians chosen for Harry Potter. This was the home Albus Dumbledore placed the most important child of our age in. A home without kindness, without support, without a single welfare check from the Ministry for an orphan whose safety should have been a priority.
While our world hailed him as a savior, Harry Potter was alone in the dark. He grew up hungry, beaten, dismissed, and unloved. The Boy-Who-Lived was the boy we allowed to suffer in silence.
And now we must ask ourselves:
How many adults turned away when he asked for help?
How many looked at young Harry and dismissed his size?
How long did we choose not to see the truth in front of us?
How could Albus Dumbledore have placed Harry with such a cruel family?
And finally, the question on every reader's lips; where is Harry Potter now?
We can only hope, readers, that he is somewhere safe.
For yesterday's article, see page 2.
For more information on Obscurials, see page 5.
For a statement from the Office of Child Protective Services for Magical Children, see page 7."
Silence hung between the four men. Alastor continued to smile lightly while the others processed the words.
Finally, Sirius broke the silence. "What…the fuck?" His voice broke on the last word, eyes wide and glossy with unshed tears. He took a shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to control his emotions for once.
Remus, on the other hand, had no reservations. A low growl ripped from his throat—deep and animalistic—startling both Lucifer and Alastor. His eyes burned a bright gold, the wolf humming beneath his skin, as his imaginary hackles raised and his hands clenched at his side.
"They what?!" He snarled, the words coming out garbled and heavy. "Next time I see them, I'll—" He cut himself off, choking on the words as his face flushed red with a rare rage.
Alastor blinked in surprise at them, tilting his head to the side slightly. "That's a bit extreme for you, don't you think, Remus?"
"Extreme?" Lucifer echoed, raising an eyebrow. The newspaper in his hands started to smolder, thin trails of smoke slowly curling from where his hands gripped at the gray paper tightly. "No, no, no, no, no, my love." He had a dangerous smile on his face. "Remus has the right idea." The paper suddenly ignited, the flames licking up the pages and his arms; the heat intense, but short, startling everyone. Lucifer beamed, hands now empty. "Al…where do they live? I just wanna…talk."
"I second that," Sirius added darkly. The tears were gone, a cold fury replacing them. "A nice little chat with 'em."
Alastor's eyes darted between his godfathers and his husband, his brow rising higher by the second. "Yeah, noooo." He gave a chuckle, clearly amused. "As entertaining as it would be to see the three of you rip them to shreds, I'm afraid I still need them alive…for now."
"What—why?!" Lucifer immediately protested, his own growl rumbling softly in his chest. "Alastor René Marchand-Morn—" He cut himself off and sucked in a deep breath before he continued, "—Marchand-Magne. We both know you do not need them alive. You only needed them around long enough to get this very interview," he emphasized, gesturing to the ashes still drifting to the ground.
"Did you just full-name me?" Alastor asked, startled. The amusement on his face didn't falter, in fact, he looked to be enjoying the conversation even more.
"Look," Lucifer said, exasperated and began counting on his fingers. "You told me I can't take out Dumblefuck. I can't take out Moldytoes. And I can't take out that toad lady." His tone was growing more strained by the second. He loved his husband—deeply and unconditionally—but he also really wanted to wipe the smug grin off his face. That and he wanted to get revenge on someone that had wronged his love.
"At least give me these human stink sacks!" He practically begged, dragging his hands through his hair.
Alastor blinked slowly, his amusement finally dialing back as he stared down at Lucifer. His smile dimmed to something smaller, more serious. Then he heaved a large, exaggerated sigh. "Very well."
"Wait… Just like that?" Sirius asked in disbelief, gesturing between the two with a hand.
"Just like that," Alastor agreed with a shrug. "Luci, don't forget to fill out the appropriate forms before you run off to kill them."
"Wait, wait, wait—" Remus interrupted, the color draining from his face. "Kill?"
"Isn't that where you were going with your threat?" Alastor asked him, raising another brow.
"I mean… Yes," Remus admitted, giving a shake of his head. "But I wasn't actually going to kill them."
Sirius snorted. "And what were you gonna do, Moony? Report 'em to the aurors?"
"Yes!" Remus said, stressing the word. "That's exactly what we should do!"
"Nah," Lucifer said casually, waving a hand in front of his face. "They deserve way worse than a cozy cell." A sinister smile slowly curled across his face. "And I can give them worse."
Sirius frowned, shooting Lucifer a dubious look. "Okay, Creepy." Then he shook his head and blinked. "No, Moony, I'm with Lucien. They gotta go go."
Remus groaned and pressed his hands to his face. "Why am I the only one with a moral compass anymore?"
"Sounds rather tiring," Alastor said with a sharp smirk, taking delight in Remus' dilemma. "You should get rid of it entirely. Life's much more fun without one."
"No." Remus dragged his hands down his face and pointed a finger at Alastor. "No. Stop that. Someone needs to keep us from going full genocide."
"Genocide?" Alastor gave a loud laugh while Lucifer gave a slight wince and turned his gaze away. "My, my. We're not that bad." He chuckled, placing a hand on his chest in mock defense before he waved his hand, but kept his attention on Remus to show he was taking the conversation seriously. "Besides. We only plan on killing a few people. Plus, we are at war. There's bound to be deaths. In fact, I'll ensure it."
"Not…exactly comforting," Remus groaned lightly and sighed. His voice dropped and he started mumbling to himself. "Why… Why do I even bother? They didn't listen to you in Hogwarts…and he's so much like James… Why would he listen as an adult? It's like Lucien with the 'answer magic' excuse."
"Answer magic?" Alastor echoed, brows furrowing together. "What…?" He glanced over at his husband and cocked his head to the side, silently asking without words.
Lucifer gave a sheepish smile, a flush coloring his cheeks. "Yeah, just call me an idiot and let's move on."
Amused, Alastor gave a simple shrug and gave his acquiescence, "Very well, you're an idiot."
—
Location: Potter Manor - Alastor's Office
July 20th, 1996 1:14 PM
Alastor's POV
The soft scratch of a fountain pen across parchment filled the stillness of the office. Alastor sat behind his desk, head bowed in focus as he penned the final lines of a letter to Andromeda Tonks. With the trial only two days away, every detail had to be precise—including coordination with their lawyer.
His ear twitched when a solid knock came from the office doors. His eyes flicked up to the dark wood as his shadow slithered out from under his boots toward the door. It's own inky ears twitched like it's master's, tilting it's head, a grin stretching wide.
"Alastor? Can we talk?" Hermione's voice came through, muffled by the thick wood.
He let out a small sigh and set the pen back in its holder. At his unspoken command, his shadow moved across the floor and merged under him. With a tug on his magic, his disguise fell over his form once more.
"Come in you two," he called out just enough to be heard. He stood as the door opened and collected his letter.
"Oh. We didn't know you were busy," Hermione murmured as she entered. Ron followed behind her, easily peeking over her bushy hair. "We can come back later."
Alastor shook his head, his smile warm and inviting. "No, you're quite alright," he replied. He moved around the desk and gestured toward the couches across the room. "Have a seat. I can always make time for my friends."
He moved toward a small cooling cabinet and kettle. With a flick of his hand, the kettle began to heat. "Tea? Cookies? Scones? I'm fairly certain Luci baked some this morning…"
"No, we're okay," Hermione began just as Ron replied, "Sure, mate." Hermione shot Ron a look while he just shrugged, unbothered.
Alastor gave a small chuckle, raising a brow. "I'll take that as a yes."
He opened the cooling cabinet and pulled out a small plate of scones—lemon blueberry and cheddar herb—still fresh from this morning. Humming to himself, he placed the plate on the tray alongside the tea pot, two mugs, and a lowball glass. He filled the teapot with the heated water, then grabbed a box of assorted teas on the tray. As he passed it, he grabbed a crystal decanter of whiskey from the nearby shelf and brought both it and the tray to the coffee table between the couches.
With ease, he settled on the opposite couch, pouring hot water into the mugs for his friends. Ron immediately reached for a lemon blueberry scone while Hermione browsed the teas with a furrowed brow.
Alastor poured himself a few fingers of whiskey, then leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, sipping leisurely from his glass. "Now that we're comfortable, what did you wish to talk about?"
Hermione cradled her mug in both hands, but didn't drink it. She stared down at the steaming tea as if might help her find the right words.
Alastor raised a brow, swirling his own glass. "Out with it, my dear. You're not one for idle silence."
"Why…" She paused, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "Why didn't you tell us…about your life with the Dursleys?"
Alastor raised a brow then after a beat, simply shrugged. "Because there wasn't anything anyone could do."
"You don't know that," Hermione said sharply, her brown eyes snapping up to look at him. Ron's eyes flicked between the two, crumbs clinging to the corners of his mouth.
Alastor exhaled lightly through his nose. He could simply say 'yes, I do', but this was Hermione Granger. Instead, he had to guide her to the answer. He took another sip of his drink before he shifted and set it down on the coffee table. He snagged one of the cheddar and herb scones and took a small bite, leaning back against the couch.
"Let me ask you a question," he said, flicking his eyes between Hermione and Ron. "Who would I have asked for help?"
"Any adult," Hermione answered almost immediately. "A teacher, a neighbor, anyone." She said the words with such conviction, as if it were that simple. As if adults always listened.
A flicker of amusement flashed in his eyes before it was gone again. He had forgotten how much faith Hermione put into authority figures.
He smiled and shook his head. "I see…" He paused, mentally chewing on his words, wondering if he should just be blunt with her. Hermione was a very logical person with a love for knowledge, and a loyalty to her texts. But her loyalty to him and their friends was far stronger. And while he could guide her to the answer, maybe a bit of bluntness today wouldn't hurt.
"From the moment I was dropped on their doorstep, I was made to understand I was unwelcome," he said. He took another bite of his scone, savoring the sharp cheddar and bitter herb. "Not only unwelcome, but conditioned to believe that I was unloved, useless, and unworthy of anything. That I was lucky to have what I did; my cousin's oversized rags they called clothing, the scraps of food they tossed at me when they felt like feeding me, the dark cupboard which I both loathed and took comfort in." He smiled humorously, eyes darkening as the memories swirled at the forefront of his mind.
"I had to 'earn' my keep, my food, everything. And every mistake, every hesitation, came with consequences," he said, leaning forward, his voice growing quieter yet sharper. "I was told repeatedly that I would grow up just like my parents. Drunk, worthless, dead. They threatened to dump me in an orphanage more times that I can count. I've lost track of how many bones were broke. How many meals were withheld. How many nights I spent locked away in silence for daring to ask questions."
He shook his head, pressing his lips together in a firm line, mentally pushing down the memories. While he had Lucifer and Charlie, his Maman, Cece, Mimzy, and all his other sisters—people who helped him heal over the years—there were moments when the memories did get to be too much and laying it all out on the table with the scones and tea had stirred them like an over boiling pot.
He drew in a slow breath, held it for a heartbeat, then released it through his nose. His shoulders slowly dropped back down from where they had crept up to his faux ears. Then he finally looked up at his old friends, tired but shoulders and spine straight.
Hermione looked like she was on the verge of crying, tears clinging heavily to her lashes and a hand pressed her mouth, while her other hand was still holding the mug of tea, now shaking slightly. He could tell she was trying to hold back any sound as he spoke, her chest rising and falling in uneven motions.
Ron on the other hand looked sick. His face was paler than normal, his many freckles standing out against the sickly pallor. His half-eaten scone was set on the table, seemingly unable to finish it in light of Alastor's words. He swallowed multiple times, his own breathing heavy and shallow and his jaw clenched tightly judging by the muscles working from what Alastor could see.
"I don't tell you this to upset you," Alastor continued, his voice much more gentle now, twirling the scone in his hand. "I'm telling you this so you understand. That as a young child, I never thought to even ask for help. I was conditioned not to ask questions, to not ask for help, to not go to another adult, another person. I thought my life was normal."
Hermione opened her mouth to speak and quickly closed it again. She cleared her throat before she spoke in a soft and broken voice. "What about… What about while at Hogwarts? Why didn't you…?"
Alastor gave a humorless huff, eyes flickering in resignation and wry amusement as he tilted his head. "I did. For the first time in my life, I did ask for help."
Both Ron and Hermione gave him curious yet hesitant looks.
"At the end of my first year, while I was still in the Hospital Wing," he said, reaching for his glass. He took a slow sip, letting the alcohol wet his mouth and burn his throat. "I asked Dumbledore if I could stay at Hogwarts over the summer. I said I didn't wish to return to my relatives. But before I could get any further, he stopped me."
He gave a single bitter laugh, shaking his head. "He said that they were my family. That there was no love stronger than that of the bonds of my family who anxiously awaited my return." He lifted his glass and took another long drag of the whiskey, easily finishing it and resting it against his knee.
A quiet breath escaped him as he cleared his throat. "Everything in the article this morning was just the tip of the iceberg. And the wizarding public doesn't need to know anything more about the Dursleys. They only need to understand how easily children fall through the cracks. How easily their 'golden' society chooses to remain ignorant instead of taking responsibility."
"But why?" Ron finally asked, his voice scratchy. Some of the color had returned to his face, but he still looked like he was processing everything. "Why put that out now?"
Alastor tilted his head and pursed his lips, his gaze sharp as it flicked between Hermione and Ron. They had said that they trusted him, that they were on his side for Balance. But they didn't know how deeply his plans went. They didn't know how deeply his sins burrowed beneath the surface—through the Earth and straight into Hell.
"Because they need to be aware that their perfect little world is broken," he replied, his voice soft, but edged with something cold. "That their silence, their comfort, their denial has allowed abuse and cruelty to fester in plain sight. That there are many others like myself that they have failed. And that even their heroes," his lip curled in mild distaste, "can bleed."
His gaze dropped to the empty glass, his fingers idly tapping the rim. "This article wasn't just the truth… It was a mirror. A reflection that they won't be able to look away from or ignore. And once they accept the truth, once they start asking the right questions, they'll realize something is deeply out of place in their world."
He leaned back, his voice quieter now. "It's not just about revenge for those who put me in that situation, but it's about awareness as well. It's about shifting the scales. And this was just the first tug at the seam that makes up the thread of lies."
He looked up from his empty glass, the calm on his face more unsettling than comforting. "It's just a shame that it took this article to open their eyes and not the war raging at their doorstep." He smiled, but it wasn't kind.
Hermione said after a few beats of silence, her voice thin."This was the first move."
"No," Ron said suddenly, frowning and brows furrowed. His eyes were fixed on the plate of scones, unseeing. "This was just the first move that everyone knows about. There were more before that."
Alastor shot Ron a sharp smile. "Exactly. There's the brilliant chess master I remember," he said.
"Like moving Sirius and everyone else out of Grimmauld," Hermione murmured, eyes widening in realization. "You wanted everyone away from Professor Dumbledore…"
"You would be correct, Hermione," Alastor replied, crossing one leg over the other again. "That man is a puppet master and he's been pulling people's strings for decades. He conveniently placed me with the Dursleys when my parents' will strictly said not to. He could have gotten a trial for Sirius with his position on the Wizengamot, yet has not done so after years. He could go after Voldemort himself, yet he does not do so. He has the power, so why doesn't he?"
Ron remained quiet and frowned, his thoughts churning in his head. Hermione pressed her lips together into a tight line. She was visibly struggling to come to any sort of terms that the wise and kind Headmaster could be so manipulative.
"Al," Ron said suddenly, his voice unsure. "You don't think… Back in first year with those puzzles. The one protecting the Stone." He paused, blue eyes finally flicking up to Alastor's. "You don't think Dumbledore set those up for us, do you?"
A pleased, sharp smile curled up Alastor's face. "Oh, you have a sharp mind, Ron."
Hermione jerked her head back and forth between him and Ron, her brows drawn together in mild distress. "What? You think Professor Dumbledore hid the Philosopher's Stone in a school full of children to draw out You-Know-Who? Then set up those obstacles—conveniently easy ones—for three first years to barrel through like foolhardy Gryffindors so Harry could face You-Know-Who? Alone?"
Alastor gave a soft chuckle. "Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?" He asked, tilting his head to the side as he watched Hermione with a knowing look. "Though, it is curious at how specific you were, Hermione. As if you've thought about it before…"
She didn't respond, only raising her chin.
'Ah, so she had been thinking about it.' He gave a hum, his grin curling up his face. "But, if you think about it in another angle; add in what you know about the old prophecy and the fact that Dumbledore has been guiding my path since long before I was born… It doesn't sound quite so ridiculous anymore, does it?"
"We haven't heard the old prophecy," Ron said, reaching for his half-eaten scone again. "Dumbledore didn't share it with us."
"Of course he didn't," Alastor muttered, rolling his eyes. "Well, let me paraphrase then. It claimed someone would be born at the end of July who would vanquish Voldemort. And Voldemort would mark them as his equal," he added, gesturing to the long-since faded lighting bolt scar on his forehead, "and that either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."
"What does that mean?" Ron asked, chewing slowly.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Hermione said, sighing in exasperation. "What it means is that Alastor was marked with the lightning bolt scar by You-Know-Who, making him the child in the prophecy." She rolled her eyes. "Even though I still think Divination is utter rubbish and wizards put too much faith into it, You-Know-Who made the prophecy self-fulling."
She finally took a sip of her tea and cringed slightly at the cold taste. She set the mug down on the coffee table instead and placed her hands on her knees. "As for the last part, the wording is interesting. It states that you have to fight each other if you want to live your life. You-Know-Who is so obsessed with you, that he's going to keep chasing you."
"Oh, what's one more egomaniac creep who's obsessed with me?" Alastor said with a grin, shrugging nonchalantly. "That's three already on my list. At least he's not trying to touch me all the time," he mumbled the last part.
"You life is mental, mate," Ron said, polishing off his scone with a weak chuckle.
Alastor shot Ron a crooked grin. "I prefer entertaining."
"So both You-Know-Who and Professor Dumbledore believe in the prophecy," Hermione murmured, her brow furrowed in thought. "And have been trying to control the outcome."
"Indeed. And yet, Voldemort only knew the first line—just that someone born at the end of July could defeat him. Quite arrogant of him," Alastor said with a chuckle, shaking of his head in mock disappointment. He clicked his tongue. "But that's neither here nor there." His smirk grew sharp, amusement twinkling behind his glasses. "Because that prophecy no long matters."
"What?" Ron asked, blinking in surprise.
"What do you mean it 'no longer matters'?" Hermione asked, leaning forward slightly and eyes sharp.
"Well…" Alastor chuckled, brushing some invisible fluff from his knee. "Fate was apparently unhappy about how the prophecy was being mishandled. The future it led to—all the dead bodies, the uncontrollable chaos, and the wizarding world teetering on collapse—wasn't exactly up to her standards. So, she spun a new prophecy. The one both Charlie and Luna recited."
He leaned forward and grabbed the decanter, pouring himself another few fingers of whiskey. He grabbed his glass with a pleased hum and took a sip. "Though, the new prophecy itself didn't negate the old one. Fate knew that. Something else happened that helped cancel its influence."
He didn't explain further. He didn't need them to know that his death cancelled the prophecy—at least not just yet.
He took a slow drag of his drink again, before he hummed and gestured to Hermione's cold tea. "Would you like me to heat that for you, dear?"
She offered him a faint smile and shook her head. "You keep mentioning Fate and Death. The deities. I did a bit of reading on them. Books I found in the Black and Potter libraries."
"Of course you did," Ron said with a fond roll of his eyes.
Alastor gave a deep laugh. "I expected nothing less from you, Hermione. Tell me," he leaned forward a little, a spark of excitement flashing in his eyes, "what did you learn?"
"So much," she intoned, leaning forward. An excitement buzzed under her skin and her eyes lit up. "The mention of deities goes back centuries. There were rituals that old families used to preform to celebrate the seasons and honor the deities. Like Samhain! And Yule! And so many others."
"Yeah, Dad used to celebrate them when he was kid," Ron added. "His mum was a Black, and the Blacks still celebrate those old holiday traditions and rituals. Just… Mum was never into them, so we never celebrated them. That…and they're considered illegal. Being dark magic and all."
"Hm, yes. 'Dark' magic," Alastor echoed sardonically, rolling his eyes. "There is nothing dark about those traditions. Yule, Samhain, Ostara; each one celebrates the turning of the seasons and life."
He shifted in his seat, whiskey glass in hand, and gestured casually. "For example, the upcoming Lughnasadh—or Lammas—is a celebration of the first harvest of the year. It's a time for baking, creating seasonal alters, sharing meals, and offering gratitude to the Deities for what the earth has yielded. The main deity that is honored is Mundane—Magic's counterpart. A day meant to spend in nature, without spells or incantations."
Hermione listened intently, her attention focused on every single word like it was made of spun gold.
"And Samhain," he continued, his voice warming as he waved a hand, his whiskey sloshing precariously, "marks the end of the harvest and the coming of winter. As well as to honor your ancestors. The veil between the worlds grows thin, making it perfect to remember them. Creating alters with photos and mementos to them, lighting candles in their memory, offering them their favorite foods and drinks. You light a bonfire for cleansing and protection, and carve pumpkins or turnips to ward off evil spirits. And the deity honored would be Death."
"But none of that sounds like dark magic," Hermione said, shaking her head. "If that's true… Then why did the Ministry ban them?"
Alastor smiled and raised his brows. "Why were there witch hunts? Why were our kind burned at the stake? Or drowned? Why do humans do anything when they don't understand something? They smother it."
He took a long drag of his drink, sighing at the taste and burn. He watched the amber liquid swirl in the glass, the lights of the sconces casting light through it. "They're scared. They didn't understand how the traditions and celebrations worked. Refused to understand them. And instead of learning, they feared them. Labeled them as dark magic and let the rot of ignorance spread."
"But that's…" Hermione began, then fell silent, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth.
"It's always been like that, Hermione," Alastor said, his voice softer. "Since the dawn of the human age. They destroy what they don't understand. Or worse…they twist it into something they can control.."
A long pause followed before Ron finally opened his mouth to comment, "That's a really dark outlook…"
"Don't get me wrong," Alastor said, gesturing to Ron with his glass. "I may have a darker view on life, but I see the light. As much as I loathe Dumbledore, he is right about one thing. Love is powerful. It can drive us to do impossible feats. To protect, to endure, to change. Love is a strength."
He paused, then sighed. "But we're getting off topic. By a lot." He threw back the rest of his whiskey then set the glass back down. He cleared his throat and continued, "The point is, the old prophecy is null and void. Both Dumbledore and Voldemort have been manipulating everyone to force it to come true. But that's not how prophecies work. You can't force fate into a corner, to turn left when it's meant to go right. Not unless you're a deity, which… None of us are."
Hermione pressed her lips together and tapped her fingers against her knee, eyes fixed on him. "You've thought a lot on this."
"More than you realize," he replied with a small shrug. He studied her for a moment, tone softening. "I understand that you've not fully embraced Dumbledore's true character yet. Or that you agree with everything I've done—or plan to do. But you really are a brilliant young woman, Hermione. And I know you'll come to your own conclusions in time. The only advice I can give you right now is… Just keep reading. Keep digging. The Potter library is full of knowledge that hasn't seen light in who knows how long."
Then his eyes flicked to Ron, his very first friend. "And Ron… I'd appreciate it if you were there for her. I know you want to support me—and I'm grateful for that—but Hermione's going to need someone steady at her side. And you've always been steadfast. A loyal Gryffindor through and through."
Ron blinked, caught off guard, then nodded. "Yeah. 'Course I can do that."
Alastor nodded back and stood, brushing out the wrinkles in his shirt. "Thank you. And if you have any questions, you're more than welcome to ask me. Time travel or not, I'd like to believe I'm still your friend."
"What? Of course we're still your friends!" Ron protested loudly, shocked.
"Don't be silly, Alastor," Hermione added, nearly at the same time. "You'll always be our friend."
A genuine smile, small and a touch melancholy, broke across his lips as he gazed at them. "I only hope you'll still feel that way…as the year unfolds."
—
Location: Potter Manor - Woods
July 20th, 1996 5:41 PM
Remus' POV
A breeze blew through the woods and clearing, gently stirring the leaves of the trees overhead as twilight bled slowly into night. Streaks of deep indigo slowly swallowed up the soft blush and golden hues of the setting sun, stars beginning to twinkle from the darkening veil above.
Behind him, Remus could hear three steady heartbeats pounding against ribcages and three distinct scents—those he considered pack. The familiar warm smell of leather, cedar, and wet dog of Sirius. The sharp smell of a thunderstorm on the horizon, an earthy musk, the tang of copper, and something deeper for Alastor. Then the scent of spiced apple, smoke, and sharp ozone from Lucien. All three were quiet as they waited.
He let out a shaky exhale, a shudder skittering up his spine as he felt the wolf inside him stir like a caged beast, restless and pacing. He could feel it now—the pull of the moon like a leash around his soul. The shift lurked in his bones, like a pulse deep within him that throbbed in a silent rhythm with the approaching full moon.
He swallowed thickly as his sharp hearing picked up someone behind him shift their weight, the stiff grass grazing under a pair of soles.
This was always the part he hated most: the waiting. Before the pain. Before the wolf overtook him. Though, the Wolfsbane Potion helped keep his mind, he could still sense the wolf and still felt compelled to follow his instincts.
His breath caught in his throat as he felt a sharp tug in his soul. Blood roared in his ears, drowning out every sound until only the pounding of his heartbeat remained. Sweat beaded over his forehead as goosebumps prickled across this arms. He cried out and folded in half, clutching the blanket at his waist as he gasped for air. A ragged groan scratched out of his throat before it transitioned into a low, animalistic growl.
He could feel the moon rising. Could feel the shift as the wolf eagerly reared up and tried to take over.
Pain flared sharp and bright as his bones snapped and reshaped, dropping him to the earth beneath him. His skin felt like it was tearing then sewing itself back together while fire licked at every nerve ending. His mind flooded with the wolf's instincts, a rush of violent hunger and primal urgency, only for the Wolfsbane Potion to cool some of that fire in his brain, numbing them.
"Shit, that looks painful."
Remus snarled as he felt his snout elongate and fangs pushed their way out of his gums like tiny knives. Fur sprouted along his body and deadly claws dug into the dirt beneath his hands. He wheezed as the pain settled and retreated, leaving him gasping and breathless. He and the wolf shared the same space of his body like a strange double vision. But it was better, so much better than watching helplessly from the inside, unable to do anything, unable to control his own body, as the wolf ran wild.
Everything around him sharpened into hyper-focus. He could hear the flutter of an owl's wings somewhere in the trees and the steady breathing of his pack behind him. His eyes snapped open, amber and glowing faintly in the dusky twilight. They swept over the clearing with a single glance, catching the shimmer of dew on blades of grass meters away. Scents flooded his nose, layered, and richer and sharper than when he was ever human.
A sudden slobbery lick dragged across his muzzle. He recoiled with a startled yelp, twisting to find a very familiar shaggy black dog in front of him.
Padfoot barked, spun in a tight circle like he was chasing his tail, then stopped to stare at him, tail wagging eagerly. He barked again, sharp and eager, before he bounded forward a few paces and turned, head cocked, waiting for Moony to follow. Come on, then. Let's play.
Moony gave a low, hesitant rumble, his ears flicking back. Padfoot's scent was familiar, screaming of home. The usual wet dog scent was stronger now, but layered with others: cedar, the roast from dinner, a trace of whiskey spiked into his tea, the wet grass he had brushed past on their walk to the clearing, the deep, smokey magic that clung to Sirius like fog, and the peppery spice that simply was Sirius.
"Woohoo! Animal party!" Lucien's voice rang out from behind Moony, far too gleeful for the occasion. He clapped his hands together and drew Moony's attention. "Al, you want me to turn you into an animal? Heh? Heh?" He nudged Alastor with an impish smirk.
Alastor rolled his eyes and shook his head with a wry smile. "No. I'm fine to remain as I am. You go have fun, mon agne."
"Suit yourself," Lucien replied with a shrug. Then, with a playful wink and in an explosion of red and gold smoke, shifted into a snake.
He was average in size, but he was like no snake Moony had every seen. Pure white scales with pink and white stripes down his belly—suspiciously like one of Lucien's favorite vests he wore often. Two tiny red circles rested on his cheeks, which were almost cartoonish, but suited Lucien.
Then Moony caught Lucien's scent.
Lucien still smelled of spiced apple, rich smoke, earthy brimstone, and sharp ozone. But beneath all that—buried deeper within Lucien—was something new. Or perhaps, something Moony could only now discern with his sharpened senses. The smells hit him like a bludger to the chest, almost making him stumble.
Bright berries and melon. The earthy sweetness of a garden after the rain. A smooth smell of sweet vanilla and mint. Then, something…something indescribable. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it smelled like light. Did light have a smell? Whatever it was, it smelled good and pure and safe.
Moony stared, transfixed on Lucien as he slithered toward him without an ounce of fear or hesitation, his little forked tongue darting out to scent the air. The snake moved with ease through the grass, his gold and red eyes sparkling with excitement and his little cheek markings made him look permanently pleased with himself. He wound his way up Moony's leg, his scales warm and silky against his fur.
Padfoot barked sharply before bounding toward them. He circled Moony and Lucien like an overexcited herding dog, panting and huffing, clearly telling them to hurry up. Then he trotted over to Alastor, tail whipping happily behind him in a blur as he nudged him firmly behind the knees.
Alastor huffed and rolled his eyes. "I'm not sure you want me to join you in whatever you have planned," he replied lightly, giving Padfoot a nudge with the end of his staff. "You don't need me. Go have fun on your own. I'm merely here for the entertainment."
"Aww, c'mon, Al!" Lucien called from atop Moony's head, startling the werewolf with the sudden unexpected shout. Moony yelped and instinctively ducked, ears flicking back in surprise. "Live a little."
Alastor shot Lucien a deadpan look, though a glimmer of amusement danced behind his glasses. "You realize that animagi don't talk, right?"
Moony twitched as Lucien's tiny forked tongue flicked out, the end tickling the fine fur on one of his ears. "But I'm not an animagus?"
Alastor shook his head and let out a long-suffering sigh. "Nevermind, love. Just have fun. I'll be here," he said, gesturing behind him to an antique-looking armchair that looked completely out of place in the clearing. "I have some reading to catch up on."
With that, he sat down and summoned a book from…somewhere—Moony still hadn't figured out how he managed that particular spell. Alastor cracked open the old leather-bound book and began to read easily, despite the fact that the only light came from the slivers of moonlight filtering through the trees above.
Moony whined and cocked his head, ears twitching. He took a few steps toward Alastor, feeling Lucien curl tighter around his ears like a white crown atop his head. He gave a pleasant sigh as the wind picked up and he eagerly took in the scents of the earth. The wet dew that clung to the fresh, sweet grass, the rich, musty soil beneath it, the multiple scents of animals—squirrels skittering from branch to branch, rabbits burrowing nearby, birds twittering from their nests. Each scent filled his being and calmly stroked the running instincts within, mingling with the subtle perfume of plants and wildflowers.
His nose twitched, his small tufted tail giving a few swishes before he froze. His stood straighter, claws curling in front of him. A scent struck him, sharp and wrong. It didn't belong to the woods or their pack. It was buried deep beneath familiar layers, but he knew the smell. He knew it all too well.
Death.
But it was subtle, buried under many other scents…familiar scents. Earthy musk, the sharp ozone like before a thunderstorm, and the heaviness of a smoldering wildfire—dangerous if not controlled or contained. Now, deeper within, a damp bitterness rose, like oakmoss and wormwood, along with a wet swampy smell, sharper than the hazy notes. The copper tang of blood was also mixed in with the sweet bitterness of rotting leaves and death.
Dangerous, primal, predatory; something that shouldn't be disregarded, but feared.
And all these complex notes came from one source—Alastor, his godson. Who was casually reading through an old, magically saturated book.
Moony stared in bewilderment, unable to reconcile that all these smells were coming from Alastor. His instincts screamed to eliminate the threat, but the potion helped keep him rational. This was his pack, his pup all grown up. He knew Alastor. Yes, the man had heavily hinted and outright admitted he was dangerous and had killed people—had suggested that he would do so again. But Moony—Remus—knew that Alastor wasn't a danger to the pack. Just as he knew Lucien wasn't a danger to the pack.
But he just didn't understand the perpetual smell of blood and death on his packmate. He wasn't injured; this smell went much deeper than the surface. How could he smell like blood? Like death? Much like a vampire, but without the nose-hair-burning sweetness that usually accompanied it.
Padfoot barked loudly and ran towards Moony again, snapping the werewolf out of his thoughts abruptly. The shaggy black dog grumbled and growled, nearly tackling Moony in his excitement, urging him to move and play.
Moony shook his head, nearly forgetting that Lucien was settled atop him—the hissed out "Hey!" was a sharp reminder—and yipped, dropping down to all fours as he took off after Padfoot's disappearing tail in the foliage.
For the rest of the night—and for the first time in a heartbreakingly number of years—Moony felt unburdened during the full moon. He had his mind, steady and clear, keeping the instincts of the beast at bay. He had a pack again, old and new. And when Alastor did eventually join in a tricky game involving magic, shifting shadows, and tossing sticks…Moony felt like he was back with the Marauders again.
He had lost his best friend, his brother, James, to betrayal. He had lost who he once thought of as a close friend, Peter, to the Dark. Who still was out there, still walking and creeping in the shadows like the rat he was.
But he had Sirius back. His best friend. The one who made him better, made him believe. And if Sirius could claw his way through grief and prison and pain, then so could he. The man was inspiring. Made him feel seen and wanted and needed. Moony didn't know what he would do without Sirius by his side.
Then he had a pack member returned. Alastor, now grown, but still the boy Remus once swore to protect. Named godfather by James and Lily, he had mourned Alastor's disappearance. Like his heart had been ripped from his chest much like when he lost James. He had blamed himself, convinced that he had failed his brother. But when Alastor stepped out of the summoning circle—older, changed, yet still carrying fond memories of Remus—hope returned with the man. He had his pup back. He was different, darker, but he was still little Harry deep down.
And following on Alastor's heels a few days later, was his newest pack member: Lucien. He really didn't know what to make of Alastor's husband and mate at first. Lucien was strange, ancient, and powerful, but one thing was beyond a shadow of a doubt: Lucien adored Alastor. Every word, every glance, every action screamed love and protection, he would burn the world before he let anything or anyone harm Alastor.
And though Lucien was unknown, some strange and ancient being, he was nothing but truthful about his feelings. He wore his heart on his sleeve. Aside from hiding his identity, he was honest, open, and fiercely loyal. He didn't shy away from difficulties as long as Alastor stood beside him.
The two complimented each other in a way Remus had only seen in Lily and James. Alastor, without knowing them, carried so much of them. James' mischief, Lily's levelheadedness and sharp temper. Her logic and thirst for knowledge and James' fierce protectiveness. Alastor was their son, just shaped by a much darker path.
And it made Moony insanely curious to know what happened to his godson. What had happened to him? What had changed him so completely? And why—why—did he carry the smell of death? He didn't think he'd be getting the answers any time soon.
And then, inevitably, the sky lightened. Deep blues and purples bled into blushing reds and soft pinks, until eventually, the sky lightened to the blue he knew by heart. The sun rose and the moon sank below the horizon, ending another night.
It was hours later, after he had slept with Sirius as Padfoot curled beside him, that he finally had enough energy to speak again. "Pads," Remus whispered hoarsely, rolling over onto his side. His heavy eyes blinked blearily. He was still bone-deep exhausted, but he needed to tell Sirius. It was important.
One of Padfoot's ears twitched and the black dog yawned and stretched. Then he shifted back into a man, stretching his limbs over the bed. "Hey, Moony. Mornin'. How you feeling?"
Remus shook his head. "You know how I'm feeling, Pads," he replied, fingers picking at the edge of the pillowcase. "I need to tell you something."
Sirius groaned softly and rolled onto his side so he was facing Remus, gray eyes still heavy with sleep after a long, rough night. "What is it?"
"It's about Alastor."
The words woke Sirius up. The man blinked a few times as if trying to understand the words that left Remus' mouth. "Wot?"
Remus stared directly into Sirius' eyes, steady despite the night. "He's not human anymore."