Harry slipped the container with Pettigrew's transformed body securely into his pouch, ensuring every magical seal was held tight.
He was still alone in the Room of Requirement—a hidden chamber that answered his needs perfectly, shifting its shape to match his intentions. Tonight, it had provided a cold, dimly lit interrogation chamber: a stone floor, iron sconces on the walls, and a small table where Harry had performed his work.
He raised his wand and muttered, "Tempus." A silvery clockface appeared in the air, its hands glowing faintly in the darkness.
Half past six. Just in time for dinner.
He exhaled, steeling himself. He needed to keep up appearances. No one could suspect what he'd been up to.
With a last glance around the room, he focused on the door, his mind firm on leaving. The Room of Requirement's door appeared, and he stepped through into the castle corridor. He let it vanish behind him, the door melting back into the wall as if it had never been.
The corridors were warm with torchlight, filled with the chatter of students heading to dinner. Harry merged with them easily, his expression composed.
He entered the Great Hall to find it bustling as always. Hermione and Ron waved from the Gryffindor table, their faces bright.
"Harry!" Hermione called, smiling. "You missed Hogsmeade today—Ron and I just got back."
Ron jumped in excitedly. "You wouldn't believe Zonko's, mate! We found these new Dungbombs—massive ones—and Fred and George are already planning a proper prank. Hermione wouldn't let me buy any."
Hermione scowled. "Because you'd have gotten us all detention!"
Harry gave a small laugh, grateful for the normalcy. "Glad you two had fun."
Dinner arrived—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and thick gravy—and for a while, Harry let himself relax. He listened to Hermione describe the new books she'd picked up and Ron complain about the prices at the Three Broomsticks.
After dinner, the three made their way back to Gryffindor Tower, their footsteps echoing in the castle's vast halls.
As they stepped through the portrait hole, Ron slowed, a worried look crossing his face. "Hey, has anyone seen Scabbers?" he asked, glancing around the common room.
Hermione frowned. "Your rat? Isn't he usually in your dormitory?"
"He hasn't shown up since Halloween," Ron muttered. "He always comes back for food, but… I haven't seen him at all. You don't think Crookshanks—"
Hermione bristled. "Ron! Crookshanks is a cat, but he wouldn't—"
"Yeah, but he's been chasing Scabbers all year," Ron argued, worry etched on his face. "What if he scared him off for good? Or worse?"
He forced his tone to remain calm. "Maybe he's just hiding. Rats do that sometimes. You know, to get away from cats."
Ron gave a half-hearted nod, but the worry didn't leave his eyes. "Yeah… maybe. I just hope he comes back."
Hermione put a gentle hand on Ron's arm. "He always does, doesn't he?"
Ron managed a small smile, but Harry's mind was already racing thinking about his next step.
[Remus POV]
In the staff quarters, Remus Lupin sat at his small wooden desk, a pile of essays stacked neatly beside him. He rubbed a weary hand across his eyes, fatigue settling into his bones like a familiar ache. The full moon was still a week away, but its pull had already begun, a faint restlessness in the corners of his mind.
He had just finished marking a particularly dreadful essay on Inferi—bless Seamus Finnigan's overactive imagination—when his gaze drifted to the window. Beyond the glass, the castle grounds lay peaceful, moonlight painting silver streaks across the lawn.
Harry, he thought, a soft ache of pride and sorrow coiling in his chest. James's son, Lily's son—his nephew in all but blood. So much of James lived in that boy: the untamed hair, the glint of mischief in his eyes, and that fierce determination that reminded Lupin of late-night adventures with the Marauders.
But Harry also carried Lily's kindness, her fierce loyalty to friends, her unwavering moral compass.
He's grown so much, Lupin thought, recalling the way Harry had handled the Dementors earlier that year. And that Patronus—an advanced piece of magic even for seventh-years—yet Harry had managed it through sheer grit and focus.
A small smile tugged at Lupin's lips. James would have been so proud.
But pride gave way to a pang of regret. Lupin had hoped to be more a part of Harry's life—an advisor, a mentor, a family friend. But circumstances and caution had kept him at a distance. He could only hope that Harry knew he was there, in the background, always ready to help.
His thoughts turned, unbidden, to Sirius. Sirius, who had been his brother in all but blood. Sirius, who had betrayed them all—betrayed James and Lily—by giving them up to Voldemort. Lupin's chest tightened.
Even now, after all these years, doubt still gnawed at the edges of his heart. Sirius had loved James fiercely; he'd have died for him a hundred times over. How could he have done it?
But he did, Lupin reminded himself bitterly. The evidence was undeniable: Peter dead, a street full of Muggle bodies, Sirius laughing like a maniac. The memory of that night, the night Sirius was arrested, still chilled him.
And yet…
A flicker of doubt—small but persistent—haunted him still. Because Sirius had never seemed the sort to betray James. Reckless, yes. Arrogant, undoubtedly. But a traitor?
He sighed and rubbed his temples. What would James think of me? he wondered. So quick to believe the worst about my own friend.
He knew he'd never have the answer, just as he knew he'd never stop missing the family he'd lost.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He straightened, composed himself, and called, "Come in."
Madam Pomfrey poked her head in, a kind smile on her face. "Evening, Remus. Just checking on you."
He gave her a tired but genuine smile. "Thank you, Poppy. I'm fine, just… thinking."
She eyed him shrewdly, noting the lines of exhaustion etched into his face. "Don't overdo it, dear. The students need you at your best."
"I'll try," he promised.
As she left, he glanced back at the essays on his desk. Tomorrow, he'd continue teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, shaping young minds to fight the darkness.
But tonight, he allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection—a man caught between the ghosts of the past and the fragile hope of the future.
James… Lily…Harry…
He vowed, as he did every night, to protect Harry—to do what he could, from the shadows if he must.