Chapter Text
“Dumbledore? I didn’t think I’d ever see you here.”
“I don’t doubt that, Remy, but you’ve always been gracious enough to humour an old man’s penchant for turning up unannounced.”
“I don’t have much to offer in the way of hospitality, I’m afraid.”
“Your company is more than sufficient. It’s good to see you again. You’re looking well.”
“Flatterer. I wouldn’t call this well, but I’ll take the compliment. Why the sudden visit, Headmaster?”
“Direct as ever. I appreciate that about you.”
“Well, I assume this isn’t a social call.”
“No, I’m afraid it isn’t. I’ve come to offer you a position at Hogwarts.”
“You're joking.”
“Not at all. The post of Defence Against the Dark Arts is vacant. I want you to fill it.”
“You know why I can’t—why I shouldn’t. The students, the parents... it's a scandal waiting to happen.”
“I’ve thought it through, and I stand by what I said. You are exactly who the students need. No one understands the battles they may face, both internal and external, better than you.”
“You’re talking about more than what’s in the curriculum, aren’t you?”
“I am. The lessons you could teach extend far beyond spells and counter-curses. Your presence alone would be a testament to resilience—to living your truth. You would inspire them.”
“And if that inspiration turns into outrage? You know what they’ll say. That I’m dangerous, that I don’t belong near children, that I’ll... corrupt them somehow. I’ve heard it all before, Dumbledore. I don’t need to hear it again.”
“And you won’t—not from me, nor from the other teachers. The world is full of those who fear what they don’t understand. But it is also full of those willing to learn, to change. And the next generation? They are braver than we ever were.”
“The parents won’t see it that way. They’ll see a risk. A threat. To their children, to the school’s reputation.”
“I’ll ensure they understand their children’s safety is paramount—and that you are not a threat. You are a guide. A protector. There is no one more qualified for this position than you.”
“It’s not just the parents. It’s everyone. You think I don’t hear what they say about people like me?”
“I know it all too well. And I know you’ve borne it with grace no one has the right to expect of you.”
“Headmaster… I can’t. The local supplier is all I can afford. The potion—I don't have the money to buy a large stockpile. And without it…”
“The school will provide it. A limitless supply, brewed by Professor Snape himself.”
“Snape? And he agreed to this?”
“He did.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“He sees the importance, as do I.”
“So, that’s your pitch? A lifeline, in exchange for being scrutinised by the entire wizarding world?"”
“I’m offering you more than that. I’m offering you a chance to live among others again. To teach, to guide, to be seen for your strength and wisdom—not for the labels others would place on you.”
“You make it sound so noble.”
“You’ve endured more than most could imagine. It’s time others saw you for who you truly are.”
“And if it backfires? What then?”
“Then I will stand beside you. Every step of the way.”
“... I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“There is always a choice. But you know as well as I do that you were made for more than this place in Yorkshire.”
“Fine. I’ll do it. But if Snape doesn’t hold up his end of the deal—”
“He will. You have my word.”
“… Alright.”
“And, Remy... welcome home.”
Remy had picked the compartment at the far end of the train. Tucked away like a secret, it was as far as she could get from the chatter of students. And the stern eyes of patrolling professors. Comfort wasn't the goal. The space was drafty, and it smelled faintly of dust. The seat cushions had long lost their spring. But it was empty, and solitude felt safer right now.
She sat with her legs crossed in the corner of the seat, pulling her patched cloak tightly around her. The cloak wasn't warm—it didn't need to be—but its weight provided a sense of security. A shield, a second skin, perhaps. The fabric was worn thin in places. So many patches had been sewn into it that the original material was now a mystery. It wasn't a sentimental piece—just practical. She couldn't afford a new one, maybe not until she'd settled back at Hogwarts in a month or two.
The train jolted. She adjusted her position, smoothing the cloak over her knees in a familiar ritual. The train's gentle rhythm beneath her was faintly comforting. But she felt groggy – more than she cared to admit. The full moon's effects lingered, dulling her thoughts and weighing her down. At least Dumbledore had made sure she had enough Wolfsbane Potion. It kept the magic surges under control. But it left her too dazed to apparate to Hogsmeade.
Grogginess was better than losing control—better than the alternative. She sat a little straighter despite it, trying to project a dignity that didn’t quite match the knot in her chest.
Her gaze shifted to the window. The Scottish countryside blurred by. It was green fields, dark woods, and a distant village. Funny how far she had to travel only to find herself slightly north of her shabby house.
Her pale reflection hovered in the glass. It was a face framed by short, soft, gray-streaked curls, perpetually unruly. A dusting of makeup softened her cheekbones and hid the bags under her eyes. Hiding her scars.
It was a face she had almost come to terms with. Almost. The word still stung more than it should have. She pulled at a loose thread on her cloak, her fingers betraying the restless hum of her thoughts. She wasn't ready for Hogwarts. Not for the students, nor the professors. And definitely not for the questions—the spoken ones and those in people's eyes. Especially not from those who might know too much.
For now, she waited, cocooned in the corner of her empty compartment. The train wheels' steady rhythm was her only company. It was a metronome ticking back through her memories.
Hogwarts. It was a world of firsts for her. First spells, first friends, first heartbreaks. Yet, it wasn't the first time she'd felt utterly, devastatingly alone.
The Sorting Hat’s voice still echoed in her mind. “Gryffindor!” it had declared, loud and certain. She hadn’t shared its confidence. At eleven years old, standing in front of the Great Hall, her nerves had swallowed any excitement. The Gryffindor table had erupted in cheers as she shuffled toward them. But, she had felt like she was stepping into the wrong story.
Her uniform hadn't been any help. The boys' robes had hung awkwardly on her slender frame. The stiff fabric scratching her skin, as if it disapproved of her. She'd constantly tugged at the collar, trying to get it to sit right. At the time, she hadn't understood why the fabric felt so suffocating or why her own skin felt like a trap. All she knew was that the weight of it crushed her.
Kids noticed things like that. They always did. And, like sharks scenting blood, they'd circle in. The Slytherins had been relentless, of course. Sissy. Pansy. Nancy boy. Their words still cut, sharp and hissing, in her nightmares. Even some of her own Gryffindor housemates hadn't spared her. Too quiet. Too soft. Not enough of this. Too much of that.
The first time she cried in the dormitory, she buried her face in the thin pillow. She clutched her blanket, hoping it would make her invisible. The memory still ached, though the edges had dulled with time.
Not all the memories hurt, though. A bittersweet smile tugged at her lips despite herself as she thought of Sirius Black.
He’d been the first to stick up for her. A group of Slytherins had cornered her in the corridor one day. Their sneering laughter bouncing off the stone walls. Sirius had appeared like something out of a story. He was smooth, commanding, fearless, and ruggedly handsome.
“Back off,” he’d said, his wand at his side but his voice carrying enough weight to stop them cold. James Potter had flanked him, looking smug and ready for a duel. Peter Pettigrew hovered, hiding at the edge. The Slytherins had slunk away without a fight.
Sirius had turned to her with a smirk, the kind of smile that made you feel like the world might be okay after all.
“Don’t let them get to you,” he’d said, slinging an arm around her shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. She hadn’t known how to respond, but Sirius hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d led her back to the common room, where James and Peter had worked overtime to make her laugh.
From that day on, she’d been one of them—a Marauder. Not as daring as James, not as magnetic as Sirius, not as eager to please as Peter. But she’d belonged. And in those rare moments when the four of them were together, the hollow ache in her chest didn’t feel so heavy.
Sirius Black. He’d been everything she wasn’t—brave, confident, untouchable. Back then, she didn't understand why she envied him so. She ached for his easy way of moving through the world.
Her thoughts dissolved at the sound of the compartment door sliding open. Her heart leapt, instinct pulling her to stillness. She tilted her head, feigning sleep, as soft footsteps shuffled inside. Whispers followed, low and cautious.
“Who do you reckon she is?” a boy whispered, but loud enough to carry.
Remy remained motionless, her senses tightening like drawn strings. She felt the faint shift of air as the students entered, the shuffle of shoes on the compartment floor. The door slid shut with a muted clatter, and they settled at the far end.
"Professor R. J. Lupin," a girl replied, her voice quieter but sharper, with an edge of certainty.
“How do you know that?” the first boy asked, curious but skeptical.
“It’s on her case,” the second said, matter-of-fact. “Up there. Look.”
Her chest tightened. Of course. There, in plain view on the rack above, sat the battered trunk, tied with knotted string. The faded letters on the side, spelling out R. J. Lupin, felt less like a name and more like an accusation.
"I wonder what she teaches," the first boy mused.
“That’s obvious,” the girl said, a little impatient now. “Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
They would guess it immediately, of course. They'd be right, of course. Defense Against the Dark Arts. From her own time as a student at Hogwarts, she already knew it was a cursed position. The last two professors had been particularly bad. Two professors in two years, both destroyed by the dumpster fire that was the post. Now it was her turn to step into the flames.
“Well,” the first boy muttered, still very skeptical, “I hope she’s up to it. She looks like one good hex would finish her off.”
Her stomach clenched. The words stung, even though she told herself they shouldn't. They didn't know her. To them, she was just a scuffed trunk and a shabby cloak—her life reduced to a few details. The heat prickling up her neck made her feel far too visible. Their judgment wasn't cruel, it was just careless, the way kids could be.
Remy forced herself to remain still, facing the window. She let the rhythmic clatter of the train calm her as their voices dropped to a murmur. A second boy's voice emerged, starting to tell them something. She told herself to let it go, to let the words slide off her. But then a name caught her ear, sharp and jarring.
“Sirius Black escaped to come after you?” the girl gasped. “Oh, Harry… you’ll have to be really, really careful. Don’t go looking for trouble!”
Her breath caught before she could control it, but she didn't turn round. Didn't flinch. Just sat there, her mind racing to catch up. Sirius. Sirius had escaped. Sirius was coming.
For Harry?
The thought struck her like a cold wind, cruel and precise. The second boy, with his calm, clipped voice—it had to be Harry Potter. Her mind raced. Now, it filled in some gaps she'd rather not deal with. Of all the students on this train, why did it have to be him—Sirius' godchild?
She rapidly worked out the maths in her head, her thoughts tumbling over each other. Harry would be... twelve... thirteen now. The same age she had been when she first realised Sirius would never see her the way she had seen him. The memory flickered briefly. It was unreal against the urgent weight of the present. Sirius was out there, and Harry could be in danger.
“No one knows how he got out of Azkaban,” one of them whispered. “No one’s ever done it before.”
The words settled into her like a stone. Sirius Black. The man she had once trusted and admired, with feelings for him that she couldn't untangle. The man who had betrayed everyone and everything. The man who had got away.
The conversation around her blurred, the boys’ voices becoming an indistinct hum. She pressed her forehead against the glass. Forced her breathing into a steady rhythm. They didn’t need to know she’d heard them. She couldn’t let this crack her, not now, not before the term had even begun.
When the trolley came by, the girl—Hermione—stepped closer, trying to rouse her. Remy didn't move. She let the girl's words blend into the rhythm of the train. Pretending to sleep was easier than whatever conversation might have followed.
After that, the students left her alone. But, she could still feel their eyes on her now and then. They were young, restless, uncertain—a tangle of emotions that felt far too familiar. She kept her face turned toward the window and waited.
The compartment door slid open again, and this time a new voice cut in. It was drawling, lazy, with a practiced air of disdain. "Well, if it isn't Potter and his little fan club."
Even without looking, she knew the type - pale, arrogant, molded by wealth and legacy. She felt the cut of his words. He sounded too much like that Prefect who had sneered at her in her first year. He had the same casual cruelty. Lucius Malfoy.
She thought about intervening. She was an adult now, their teacher. She should step in and say something. But her thoughts felt scattered, her breath too weak. So she let the moment pass, hoping her presence would be enough. Indeed, when the boy noticed her, his voice wavered, and he backed off.
When he left, the tension in the compartment slowly unravelled, piece by piece. Or perhaps it was just how it felt to her. Remy remained still. Her hands clenched into fists beneath her cloak's folds. She thought about speaking up, offering some words, anything—but the words didn't come. For now, it was easier to play dead.
Her thoughts went round and round about Black's escape. Where would he go? What would he do? How had she missed this? The questions chased each other in circles, with no answers. Then, something more urgent pulled her back to the present.
The train was slowing down.
The shift was subtle at first, a faint slowing down that might have been dismissed. But it persisted, the familiar rhythm of the train's wheels faltering. She stayed still, but her mind raced. This wasn't a scheduled stop. Something was amiss. The train never halted mid-journey, unless... unless something was dreadfully wrong.
“We can’t be there yet,” Hermione's voice broke the silence, tinged with unease.
The train slowed until it juddered to a halt. The sudden stop sent luggage tumbling from the racks. Drawing muted curses from the other compartments. In the stillness, the gentle patter of rain against the windows grew louder. The wind rattled the thin glass with a mournful howl. Inside, the air felt heavy, thick with tension that made the hairs on the back of Remy's neck stand on end.
“What’s going on?” one of the boys asked, but his words hung in the air, unanswered, as if the train itself was holding its breath.
And then, without warning, the lights cut out.
Behind her closed eyelids, Remy saw the shift as the dim red glow gave way to an oppressive black. For a moment, everything was still.
“Ouch!” the girl hissed, breaking the silence. “Ron, that was my foot!”
Remy’s lips twitched, despite herself.
But the levity was short-lived. The wind howled louder outside, battering the train's thin walls. She felt the mounting tension. A faint murmur followed as the students scrambled in the dark. The faint squeak of someone wiping the window broke the lull. Remy finally risked a peek.
“Something’s moving,” the boy—Ron—whispered. “Out there. I think… I think people are coming aboard.”
Not people. She knew better. The cold was unmistakable—not the kind that came from the rain or the storm outside. This cold crawled under the skin, burrowed into the marrow of the bones. It was wrong, ancient, and unnatural, carrying the metallic tang of despair. As her heart hammered against her ribs, she shoved the cloak aside and reached for her wand.
"Quiet," she ordered sharply, her voice cutting through their murmurs. It silenced them instantly.
Their breathing was shallow and quick in the dark. She could almost see their fear, a living, pulsing thing that fed the growing chill. Pushing herself up, she took slow, deliberate steps to the door, her wand gripped tightly in her hand. With a flick of the wrist, light sparked from its tip. It cast long, flickering shadows that twisted unnaturally on the walls.
“Stay where you are,” she instructed, not looking at them, keeping her voice firm in a way that left no room for argument.
The cold deepened. Frost began to creep across the window's edges. It spidered over the glass in delicate patterns. They belied the horror of what was coming. And then, just as she reached for the door handle, it slid open on its own.
And a Dementor filled the doorway.
Its presence was a black hole, sucking all warmth and light from the compartment. The ragged black cloak hung loosely over its emaciated frame. Its face—if it had one—was hidden in the hood's shadow. It didn't arrive with movement, but with a void. It brought an absence that stole her breath.
It lingered, as if considering them, its head tilting slightly.
Then it inhaled.
It was a slow, sickening sound. A rattling gasp. A grotesque parody of life. It seemed to seek not to breathe but to consume the air. The cold was unbearable. It stabbed into her chest with icy fingers that clawed at her soul. Her breath fogged the air, her wand hand trembling despite her efforts. The students recoiled, their breath catching in their throats. Their fear pressed in on her.
She risked a glance at Harry. His face was pale, his eyes wide and unfocused, his chest heaving as if he was struggling to breathe. His mouth opened as if to let out a scream, but no sound came out. His body convulsed, as his limbs started to twitch wildly out of control.
“No,” she muttered through gritted teeth, snapping her attention back to the Dementor. Her wand was already raised, her grip white-knuckled. She had to act. Now.
In the chaos, she latched on to him. To Sirius. His easy steadiness. He spoke of making light in the darkest places, of holding on to something good.
“Expecto Patronum!” she shouted, her voice ringing with urgency and force.
A blinding, radiant light erupted from her wand. It filled the compartment with warmth and drove back the cold. The Dementor recoiled, its cloaked form retreating with a low, guttural hiss. For a moment, it lingered at the edge of the light, as though weighing its chances. And then it fled, dissolving into the darkness with one last rattling breath.
Her wand's light dimmed, leaving the compartment dark again. She stood motionless for a moment, her wand still raised, her breathing shaky. The cold ebbed, replaced by a tentative warmth, though the memory of it lingered in her bones.
Behind her, the students stayed silent, their shock hanging heavy in the air. She turned slowly, her gaze scanning over them. Harry had slid to the floor, his face slack, but his breathing had steadied. The others stared at her, their eyes wide and unblinking.
"It's gone," she said softly, lowering her wand. She tried to add the weight of certainty. "You're safe now."
They didn’t answer immediately, their expressions still frozen in fear. But then train lurched, and the lanterns flickered back to life. The engine hummed once more beneath their feet.
It was as if a switch had been flipped. The others in the compartment suddenly burst into frantic motion. Together the four of them—when did the other two get there?—they set about tending to Harry. Someone grabbed his shoulders, pulling him upright. Another leaned in close, their voice sharp and urgent, calling out to him to wake up.
They smacked his cheek, not hard enough to cause pain but enough to jolt him. His head jerked back, and a weak gasp escaped his lips as his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and wild. His chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths. His gaze darted around, trying to work out where he was.
“Are you all right?” Remy asked, her voice softer now, though her body still hummed with tension. Her wand remained loosely in her hand as she surveyed the students.
Remy let out a slow, steadying breath. She tucked her wand into her cloak. Then, she reached into her pocket and got a slightly crushed chocolate bar. She mourned the loss of the treat for a moment. It wasn't often that she indulged in sweets. Then she broke it into pieces, handing the largest chunk to Harry.
“Eat this,” she said. “It’ll help.”
The boy hesitated, his hand trembling as he took the piece. She handed smaller portions to the others, her hands still shaking a bitas she worked.
“What… what was that?” Harry finally managed.
"A Dementor," she replied a bit more curtly than she intended to. "They're one of the guards of Azkaban."
The words were simple, but her mind was racing. Why were Dementors on the train? What possible justification could there be for sending those creatures here, among children? The idea was unthinkable.
"I need to speak to the driver," she said, turning round abruptly. She cast a quick glance back at Harry before stepping out into the corridor. Her hands were trembling as she walked, but her jaw was set firm. Whatever was going on, it couldn't wait—Dumbledore had to know. The sooner the better.