Chapter Text
Just before the start of my fourth year at Hogwarts, did my father announce that he felt things would be different. He said the air felt more suffocating recently, that it reminded him of a storm brewing along the horizon, waiting for the perfect moment to strike and bear down on the Earth with its sharpened droplets of rain and destructive bolts of lightning He mentioned being plagued by vast omens, seeing signs of a clouded future.
My father is many things; he is kind and terribly smart, he enjoys the simple pleasures that life has to offer like weathered books or porcelain cups with chips along the rim, he loves the smell of fresh ink, and to find himself lost in the forest behind our home (though I suspect he knows every inch of it, he just likes to pretend he’s lost so that he might spend more time outdoors). He is a gentle man, overcome by grief, but one thing Remus Lupin is not, is an angry being. So, please, imagine my surprise when one foggy morning, before the sun had yet to grace us with its presence, he shouted. His voice was uncharacteristically rough as he cursed, another oddity..
I dropped my cup of tea, swearing beneath my breath as the warm liquid pooled at my feet, soaking the wool socks I’d stolen from his wardrobe. I didn’t mind that the cup had lost its handle, there were many of its kind in the kitchen cabinets. I moved hurriedly to clean the spill, snatching a faded blue dish towel with one too many holes from the counter, throwing it to the ground and watching as it became dampened by my morning tea.
I quietly mourned for my warm drink, thinking of how delightful it would have been.
“Papa?” I called carefully, using my toe to nudge the towel and wipe up the stray bits of liquid. “Are you ok?”
“I’m fine, my darling,” he answered, his words clipped yet apologetic. I listened as his footsteps sounded toward the kitchen. “Did I startle you? I heard something drop.”
“Just my tea,” I hummed distractedly. I felt my lips curl into a frown, my nose scrunching as I peered down at the drenched dish towel. I hated touching wet fabrics. I didn’t like the way it felt pressed between my fingertips, it’s what I imagine sopping wet bread to feel like, and it was disgusting. “I broke another cup, Papa. It matches the one you dropped just last weekend.”
His familiar chuckle filled the space, and I felt his large, warm hand settle over my shoulder.
“I’ll get it,” he said kindly as he kneeled to grab the dish towel. I watched as he tossed it into the sink before running his hands down the front of his wrinkled pants, my broken cup abandoned on the floor. My father, more often than not, looked like a rumpled old man. He lived in oversized sweaters of varying shades of brown and green, with plain tees underneath. I bought him slippers two holidays ago, yet he found more comfort in the silly strawberry socks I’d gifted him as a joke, so now his wardrobe is filled with socks of different patterns. “I apologize for scaring you, I shouldn’t have shouted like that.”
I waved his apology off, swiping the newly broken porcelain off the floor. “Are you ok?”
I listened as he sucked in a sharp breath, grunting in response. My father doesn’t grunt, he always has a well prepared answer and if not, he remains silent until one can be formed. This morning continued to become stranger by every passing moment.
“What’s the matter?” I asked worriedly, my brows creasing as I stared at him. “Has something happened? Is it the Ministry again? Gosh, not a single one of those old fucks as has a life. ”
His eyes widened in shock. “No, my darling. Language. Nothing like that…I’ve received a letter. Two, actually.”
“From who?”
It took him a long while to answer, so I busied myself. I scurried around the kitchen, pulling another deformed cup from the cabinet, gathering my tin of tea leaves, and jar of honey. My father, without having to be asked, fetched the carton of milk for me, placing it on the counter beside the rest of my gathered items. He still hadn’t spoken, so I began fixing myself another cup of tea, and silently prayed this one would survive.
“The Headmaster of Hogwarts,” he started, and suddenly his voice sounded hesitant. “And Professor Snape.”
I knocked the tin of tea leaves over by mistake, whirling around to face my father. I felt the panic settle deep into my bones, my heart slamming viciously against my chest.
“Whatever Professor Snape said I did at the end of last term, he’s lying.” I spoke hurriedly. “I told you that old man has it out for me. What sane Professor writes home to a student’s father during the summer holiday?”
My father frowned. “Y/N Lupin, what on Earth are you talking about?”
The room suddenly felt hot. “Nothing.”
His frown deepened, and suspicion clouded his eyes. “Young lady, what did you do?”
“Nothing, Papa,” I smiled innocently, knowing he wouldn’t buy it. “It was the Weasley twins, if anything. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
My father sighed as he shook his head. I watched quietly as he pressed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We will discuss this later,” he warned, and I smothered the groan clawing at my throat. “Dumbledore has offered me a teaching position. Professor Snape simply provided me with the necessary materials, along with a few choice words.”
“Was he nasty to you?” I asked defensively. “Didn’t you go to school with him?”
My father nodded. “I believe he showed interest in teaching this class, so I imagine there will be tension. It is to be expected, nothing for you to concern yourself with, my darling.”
“What class is it?”
“Defence against the Dark Arts.”
I nodded in understanding. Hogwarts seemed notorious for running through Professors for the Dark Arts. We’d gone through several already, and it all started once Harry Potter began attending. Now, there was an omen if I ever did see one, the boy’s entire being just screamed bad luck. Things had become more hectic at the school since he arrived, especially with rumours spreading of the Dark Lord’s return.
“Are you going to take the job?” I murmured gently, mindful to keep the excitement from my voice. “I think it’s a great opportunity. You’d be a wonderful Professor, and I wouldn’t have to worry about you being alone while I’m away.”
My father’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at me. “What have I told you about worrying?”
I rolled my eyes. “Papa, I know, you think it’s unnecessary. But I do worry about you while I’m at school, and it’s terribly hard for me to focus on assignments and exams. I think you should do us both a favor, and just accept the Headmaster’s offer.”
“Really?” he laughed. “What a perfectly convenient explanation.”
“I think it sounds like a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
My father hummed in amusement. “I’m sure you do believe so.” The smile quickly fell from his face, his brows creasing in that way they did when he was concerned. “I have reservations.”
“Why?”
“I told you, I’ve felt strange recently. Something feels off,” he answered considerately. “I’ve seen many omens as of late, and the air…It feels odd.”
“You’re nervous,” I reasoned. “You’re just overthinking, Papa.”
He seemed to take my words seriously, nodding his head in agreement.
“It could be nothing,” he assured me gently, though I imagine it was more for his sake than mine. His mouth stretched into that same kind, tired smile that seemed permanently etched onto his features, it made his eyes soften in the way that always brought me comfort. “We mustn’t worry ourselves. You’ll have a wonderful time, and everything will be all right.”
I stepped toward my father, walking into his outstretched arms and placing my head against his shoulder. He smelled of coffee and ink, and I inhaled deeply, letting the scent of him wash over me.
“Please, at least consider filling the position at Hogwarts,” I murmured.
I would have thought he was ignoring me if hadn’t grunted once more. I didn’t speak on it.
“I promise.” he whispered after a long time, and in that moment that was all I needed to hear.