**The Shrieking Shack, Hogsmeade**
**January 22nd, 1982 - 7:52 PM**
The Shrieking Shack had earned its name honestly. Even abandoned, even years since its last occupant, the old building groaned and creaked with every gust of wind, wood settling in ways that sounded almost like screams if you were imaginative enough.
Or if you were a werewolf who'd spent too many full moons trapped here, transforming in agony while your friends kept you company outside.
Remus Lupin stood in what had once been the main room, his wand lit, watching dust motes dance in the beam. The furniture was long gone—destroyed during his transformations or removed by Dumbledore after graduation. Only bare walls and scarred floorboards remained, testament to years of violence he couldn't quite remember.
"Moony?"
Remus spun, his wand raised, his heart hammering—
Sirius Black stood in the doorway, hands raised in a gesture of peace, a tentative smile on his face.
"Easy," Sirius said. "Just me. Your public summons worked."
For a moment, Remus couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything except stare at his best friend—thinner than he remembered, older than the last time they'd seen each other properly, but unmistakably *Sirius*. Alive. Free. *Here*.
"You came," Remus managed finally, his voice rough.
"You called." Sirius stepped fully into the room, and Remus could see him properly now. The gauntness that spoke of Azkaban's brief touch. The wariness in his grey eyes. The way he held himself ready to flee or fight. "Marauder code. I had to answer."
"Even though I—" Remus's voice cracked. "Even though I believed the worst of you. Even though I didn't fight for you, didn't question your imprisonment, didn't do *anything*—"
"Even though," Sirius confirmed. He moved closer slowly, carefully, like approaching a spooked animal. "Moony, I'm not going to pretend it didn't hurt. That I wasn't angry, wasn't betrayed. But I understand why you believed it. The evidence pointed to me. Peter framed me perfectly. And you were grieving James and Lily. You weren't thinking clearly."
"That's not an excuse—"
"It's not an excuse," Sirius agreed. "But it's an explanation. And I've had time to think about what I would have done in your position—if the roles were reversed, if James had been accused, if everything pointed to his guilt..." He paused. "I'd have wanted to believe him innocent. But I don't know if I'd have been brave enough to stand alone against all that evidence."
Remus felt tears burn his eyes. "You're being too kind. I failed you, Sirius. I should have known—should have *felt* it somehow—that you couldn't be the traitor. We were brothers. I should have known."
"We were brothers who'd spent a year suspecting each other of being the spy," Sirius said quietly. "You thought I suspected you because of—" he gestured vaguely, "—the werewolf thing. I thought you suspected me because of my family. James suspected both of us at different times, though he'd never admit it. The war poisoned us, Moony. Made us doubt everything, even each other."
"That doesn't make it right."
"No," Sirius agreed. "But it makes it *understandable*. And understanding is the first step toward forgiveness."
"You forgive me?" Remus's voice was barely above a whisper. "Just like that?"
"Not just like that," Sirius said. "I spent my day in Azkaban angry at everyone—you, Peter, Dumbledore, the whole damn world. But then Wanda showed up and reminded me that holding onto anger just poisons yourself. And after that, after I was free and had time to think..." He shrugged. "Life's too short to lose more brothers over mistakes made in grief. James and Peter are gone. I'm not losing you too."
The dam broke. Remus closed the distance between them and pulled Sirius into a fierce hug, and suddenly they were both crying—great heaving sobs that echoed off the bare walls of the Shrieking Shack.
"I'm so sorry," Remus choked out. "I'm so sorry, Padfoot. I should have been better. Should have been braver. Should have been the friend you deserved—"
"You're here now," Sirius said, his voice muffled against Remus's shoulder. "That's what matters. You called me back. You used the code. You reminded me that some bonds are stronger than betrayal or time or even Azkaban's darkness."
They stood like that for several minutes, two broken men holding each other up in an abandoned building that had once represented everything wrong in Remus's life and was now somehow a place of healing.
Finally, Sirius pulled back, wiping his eyes roughly. "God, we're a mess."
"We've earned it," Remus said, managing a watery smile. He conjured two chairs—less dusty than the floor—and they sat facing each other. "Tell me everything. The arrest, Azkaban, how this Wanda Maximoff found you. All of it."
So Sirius did. He talked about the confrontation with Peter, the explosion, waking up in chains. The brief horror of Azkaban—the Dementors, the cold, the certainty that he'd die there. And then Wanda appearing like something from a dream, breaking him out with magic that bent reality itself.
"She just walked in," Sirius said, still sounding amazed by it. "Through the wards, through the walls, like they weren't even there. Picked me up—literally picked me up, Moony, I was in dog form and she just scooped me up like a puppy—and *flew* us out. The Dementors tried to stop her and she just... laughed at them."
"What is she?" Remus asked. "I've never seen magic like that. The way she summoned the Cloak through a portal, the way she disarmed all three of us simultaneously—"
"She calls it chaos magic," Sirius said. "Says she's from another universe—literally another reality—where magic works differently. Where she can rewrite the rules if she wants badly enough. It's..." He searched for words. "It's terrifying and beautiful and completely beyond anything I've ever encountered."
"And she's raising Harry."
"She *is* Harry's mother now," Sirius corrected gently. "I know it sounds strange—she's known him for two months, she's not even from this world—but Moony, you should see them together. The way he lights up when she walks in. The way he says 'Mama' like it's the most important word in the world. She loves him. Really, truly loves him."
"But what about Lily's sacrifice?" Remus asked. "The blood protection? Dumbledore said—"
"Dumbledore was wrong," Sirius interrupted. "Or at least, wrong about what Harry needed most. Yes, the blood wards would have protected him at the Dursleys. But at what cost? Growing up hated, abused, told he was a freak every day of his life? That's not protection, Moony. That's torture disguised as safety."
"And Wanda provides better protection?"
"Wanda provides *love*," Sirius said firmly. "And yes, also protection. She's woven her magic through Harry's very core—combined it with Lily's sacrifice to create something unprecedented. Harry is safer with her than he would be anywhere else. Safer than the blood wards, safer than Hogwarts, safer than anything Dumbledore could have arranged."
Remus was quiet for a moment, processing. "Tell me about this magic she wove through him. The crimson power."
Sirius explained—the Horcrux, the New Year's Eve working, the way Wanda had merged her chaos magic with Lily's sacrifice. The destruction of all Voldemort's soul fragments, leaving Harry free of the prophecy's shadow.
"She killed Voldemort," Remus said slowly. "Completely. Permanently. Without even meaning to."
"Pretty much."
"That's..." Remus ran his hand through his hair. "That's either the best news I've heard in years or the most terrifying. I can't decide which."
"Can't it be both?" Sirius asked. "The war is over, Voldemort is dead, Harry is safe. But yes, the woman who accomplished all that has power that makes even Dumbledore look weak by comparison. It's a lot to process."
"Does she seem stable?" Remus asked carefully. "I mean—that much power, that much ability to change reality—does she seem in control? Or is there a risk she'll go dark herself?"
"I think that's her greatest fear," Sirius admitted. "She's terrified of becoming the monster she was in her own world. Of letting her power spiral out of control again. But that fear—that awareness—that's what keeps her grounded. She *knows* she could be dangerous. So she's hypervigilant about not crossing lines."
"But she stole the Deathly Hallows," Remus pointed out. "Threatened Dumbledore. Made enemies of some very powerful people."
"To protect Harry," Sirius said. "Every line she's crossed, every threat she's made—it's been to keep Harry safe. Not for personal gain, not for power. Just... maternal protection taken to an extreme level."
"An extreme level that involves telling the Chief Warlock she'll 'make sure he can never interfere with anyone again,'" Remus said dryly.
"Okay, yes, that was maybe a bit much," Sirius conceded. "But Dumbledore was planning to contest my custody. To take Harry away from people who love him and put him—well, I don't know where. Somewhere he could control. Wanda was just making it clear that wouldn't be happening."
Remus studied his friend carefully. "You care about her. Wanda. It's not just about Harry—you've developed feelings for her."
"I—" Sirius stopped. Considered lying. Decided against it. "Yes. I care about her. How could I not? She saved me, gave me a purpose, made me part of a family when I thought I'd lost everything. But it's complicated. She's still grieving people she lost in her world—a husband, children. She's not ready for anything beyond what we have now."
"Which is?"
"Partners," Sirius said. "Co-parents. Family. We're raising Harry together, building a life together, supporting each other. But we're not—it's not romantic. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And I'm okay with that."
"Are you?" Remus asked gently. "Really?"
"I have to be," Sirius said. "Because the alternative is pushing her, pressuring her, making her feel obligated when she's not ready. And I won't do that. I won't be another person in her life who tries to take more than she's willing to give."
Remus was quiet for a moment. "You've grown up."
"I've been through hell," Sirius corrected. "Even one day in Azkaban changes you. Makes you reevaluate what's important. And what's important is Harry being loved and safe. Everything else is secondary."
"Even your happiness?"
"My happiness *is* Harry being safe," Sirius said. "And being part of a family again. And not being in Azkaban. Trust me, Moony—compared to what I thought my life would be, this is paradise. Whether or not Wanda ever returns my feelings is honestly the least of my concerns."
Before Remus could respond, a voice echoed from the doorway—female, amused, with a distinct Eastern European accent:
"You know I can hear you, right?"
Both men jumped, wands drawn, spinning toward the door—
Wanda Maximoff stepped out of empty air, scarlet mist dissipating around her. She'd been invisible—or perhaps simply standing in a pocket of altered reality—and now she materialized fully, her expression somewhere between embarrassed and fond.
"You said you'd stay hidden!" Sirius protested.
"I did stay hidden," Wanda pointed out. "For nearly an hour. But then you two started having a heart-to-heart about my romantic availability and I thought I should probably intervene before it got more awkward."
"How much did you hear?" Sirius asked, his face going red.
"All of it," Wanda admitted. "Sorry. Occupational hazard of being paranoid about your safety. I was monitoring the entire conversation in case Remus tried anything suspicious." She looked at Remus directly. "He didn't. For the record, you seem sincere."
"I am sincere," Remus said, still staring at her. Up close, she was both more and less intimidating than he'd expected. More because her power was palpable even when suppressed—the air around her practically hummed with potential. Less because her expression was open, tired, human. Not a monster or a villain. Just a woman trying to protect her son.
"Good," Wanda said. "Because Sirius needs friends. Real friends. People who knew him before everything went to hell. And you—" she smiled slightly, "—you're good for him. You make him laugh in ways I can't. You share history I'll never understand. So I'm glad you called him here. Glad you're trying to repair what was broken."
"Even though I failed him?" Remus asked quietly.
"Everyone fails sometimes," Wanda said. "What matters is whether you try to make it right afterward. You're trying. That counts for something."
She moved further into the room, and Remus could see the exhaustion in her face now. The weight she carried. This wasn't a woman drunk on power or reveling in her ability to rewrite reality. This was someone who'd been through trauma and was desperately trying to do better this time.
"Sirius said you're from another universe," Remus said. "That in your world, Harry's story is fiction. Books."
"Seven of them," Wanda confirmed. "Very popular. I read them as a child with my brother. We loved them."
"And you know what would have happened? If you hadn't intervened?"
"Some of it." Wanda sat on the third chair that appeared when she gestured—conjured from possibility with the same casual ease others might summon an already-existing object. "The books covered Harry's time at Hogwarts, ages eleven through seventeen. But there were gaps, things implied or mentioned in passing. I know the broad strokes of what his childhood would have been like. What he'd face at school. How it all ended."
"And you changed it."
"I'm trying to," Wanda said. "The future isn't written anymore. The moment I took Harry from Privet Drive, every prediction became unreliable. But I know enough to avoid the worst outcomes. To protect him from people who would use him."
"People like Dumbledore," Remus said carefully.
"People like Dumbledore," Wanda agreed. "I know he means well. I know he's trying to protect the greater good. But his greater good has a tendency to sacrifice individuals for the collective. And Harry is *my* individual now. I won't let him be sacrificed for anyone's grand plan."
Remus studied her for a long moment. "In the books—the ones from your world—what happened to Harry?"
"He survived," Wanda said. "But at enormous cost. He lost people he loved. Was manipulated by adults who should have protected him. Nearly died multiple times. And in the end, he had to make a choice—sacrifice himself or let Voldemort win. He chose sacrifice."
"But he survived," Sirius said. "You said he survived—"
"He did. But the boy who survived that sacrifice wasn't the same as the one who made it. Harry came back from death different—harder, older, carrying scars that would never fully heal." Wanda's voice was tight. "I won't let that be his story. I won't raise him to be a weapon who walks willingly to his own execution."
"Even though he survived it?"
"*Especially* because he survived it," Wanda said fiercely. "He shouldn't have had to. No child should ever have to choose between dying and letting everyone they love die. That's not a choice—that's torture. And I will rewrite reality itself before I let Harry face that."
The temperature in the room had dropped slightly. Remus could feel it—the weight of her power, responding to her emotions. Not threatening him specifically, but radiating outward like heat from a fire.
"I believe you," he said quietly. "And I think—I think Dumbledore is wrong about you. You're not dangerous in the way he fears. You're just a mother who would burn the world down to protect her child."
"Is there a difference?" Wanda asked.
"Yes," Remus said. "Because your protection is focused. Specific. You're not trying to conquer or control or reshape society. You're just trying to keep one child safe. That's not megalomania. That's love."
Wanda's eyes shimmered for a moment. "Thank you," she said softly. "I needed to hear that."
They sat in silence for a moment—three people who'd all lost too much, all been broken by war in different ways, finding unexpected common ground.
Finally, Sirius spoke: "So where do we go from here? The three of us?"
"You two rebuild your friendship," Wanda said immediately. "Without me hovering. You need that—need someone who knew you before everything got complicated. Someone who can call you Padfoot without it being weird."
"It's not that weird—" Sirius started.
"It's very weird," Wanda said. "I'm not calling you a dog name, Sirius. We've discussed this."
Remus laughed—the first genuine laugh he'd managed in months. "I like her," he said to Sirius. "She's sensible."
"She's bossy," Sirius said, but he was grinning.
"I'm *practical*," Wanda corrected. "There's a difference. Now—Remus. If you want to be part of Harry's life, part of our lives, there are conditions."
"Which are?"
"First: you don't report our location to Dumbledore. I know you two have history, that you respect him. But Harry's safety comes before loyalty to your former headmaster."
"Agreed," Remus said without hesitation.
"Second: you don't try to convince me that Dumbledore's way was better. That Harry should have gone to the Dursleys, should have had a 'normal' childhood. I've made my choice. I'm not going to be second-guessed."
"Understood."
"Third: if you notice Harry manifesting unusual magic—and he will, because of what I've done to his core—you don't panic. You don't tell people. You tell me, and we handle it as a family."
"What kind of unusual magic?" Remus asked carefully.
"The kind where he accidentally floats himself while sleeping," Sirius said. "Or makes things glow crimson. Or demonstrates power levels that shouldn't be possible for a toddler."
"Merlin," Remus breathed. "What did you do to him?"
"I protected him," Wanda said firmly. "And yes, that protection came with side effects. But he's healthy, happy, and free of a Horcrux that would have poisoned his entire life. The trade-off was worth it."
"I'm not questioning that," Remus said quickly. "Just... trying to understand what I'm agreeing to. You're asking me to help raise a child who's more powerful than he should be, marked by magic no one fully understands, being kept hidden from authorities who think you're dangerous." He paused. "And you want me to do this while not telling my old mentor, not seeking outside guidance, and trusting that you know what you're doing."
"Yes," Wanda said. "That's exactly what I'm asking."
"That's insane."
"Probably," Wanda agreed. "But it's also the right thing to do. Harry needs all the family he can get. He needs people who knew his parents, who can tell him stories about James and Lily. Who can teach him about his heritage, his history, the good parts of the magical world. And you're one of the only people left who can do that."
Remus looked at Sirius. "What do you think?"
"I think you already know your answer," Sirius said. "You used a Marauder summons to call me here, Moony. You publicly declared your allegiance in a way everyone could see. You're already committed—you just haven't admitted it yet."
"I want to be clear," Remus said, looking at Wanda. "I don't think Dumbledore is evil. I think he genuinely believes he's protecting people. I think his methods are flawed and his manipulation is wrong, but his intentions are good."
"I can accept that," Wanda said.
"And I think you're walking a dangerous line," Remus continued. "Power like yours—reality-warping, soul-deep magic—it's the kind of thing that corrupts. That makes people believe they can fix everything if they just try hard enough. I've seen it before. Hell, I've felt it myself during full moons—the temptation to let the wolf take control, to stop fighting and just *be* the monster everyone fears."
"Your point?"
"My point is that I'm agreeing to this—to being part of Harry's life, to keeping your secrets—but I'm also going to watch you. Not to report back to Dumbledore. Just to make sure you stay on the right side of that line. To tell you if I see you starting to slip."
Wanda considered this for a long moment. "You want to be my conscience."
"I want to be your friend," Remus corrected. "The kind of friend who tells you when you're wrong. The kind who calls you out when you're crossing lines you shouldn't cross. Sirius needs that kind of friend. You need it too."
"And you think you can fill that role?"
"I think I'm the only one who can," Remus said honestly. "Sirius loves you—he's not going to question your decisions, not when he's so grateful for everything you've done. Agnes sounds wonderful but she's not magical—she can't fully understand what you're capable of. Harry is a baby. So that leaves me. The outsider who cares enough to try but isn't so invested that I'll ignore warning signs."
"I think I might hate how much sense that makes," Wanda said finally.
"You won't hate it when it saves you from making a mistake," Remus said. "Trust me. Everyone needs someone who'll tell them no."
"Fine," Wanda said. "You can be our conscience. But that works both ways—if I see you making mistakes, I'll call you out too. If I see you letting your werewolf status define you, or accepting discrimination you shouldn't accept, or generally being too hard on yourself—I'm intervening."
"Deal," Remus said immediately.
"Really? That easily?"
"Wanda, I've spent my entire life being told I'm a monster," Remus said quietly. "Having someone willing to argue with that assessment? Who sees me as a person worth defending? I'm not going to turn that down."
Wanda studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Okay then. Welcome to the family, Remus Lupin. We're a mess, we're probably making terrible decisions, and we're definitely going to have conflicts with several powerful institutions. But we love each other and we protect our own. Think you can handle that?"
"I think it sounds perfect," Remus said honestly.
Sirius whooped and pulled Remus into another hug, this one less tearful and more celebratory. "This is brilliant! This is—Moony, you're back! We're the Marauders again!"
"We're two-thirds of the Marauders," Remus corrected. "James is gone. Peter's a traitor. We're just the survivors."
"Then we honor the fallen by living well," Sirius said firmly. "By raising James's son right. By being the family he would have wanted Harry to have."
"By being better than we were," Wanda added. "By not making the same mistakes. By learning from what went wrong."
"Heavy conversation for a reunion," Remus observed.
"We're heavy people," Sirius said. "Comes with the trauma."
"Fair point."
They stayed in the Shrieking Shack for another hour, talking about everything and nothing. Remus told them about his cabin in the North, the solitary life he'd been living since the war ended. Sirius described Harry's first accidental magic display, making them all laugh. Wanda explained chaos magic in terms Remus could almost understand, though some of it clearly translated poorly into local magical theory.
Finally, as the night grew late and cold began to seep through even Wanda's warming charms, they prepared to leave.
"Come visit," Sirius said to Remus. "Soon. Meet Harry properly. See what we're building."
"I will," Remus promised. "Though I should probably send an owl first rather than just showing up—"
"You're family now," Wanda interrupted. "Family doesn't need to give warning. Just come when you need to. The wards will let you through."
"How will they know it's me?"
Wanda smiled. "They'll know. Trust me."
She opened a portal—that now-familiar swirl of scarlet mist—and she and Sirius stepped through. The portal lingered for a moment, as if waiting to see if Remus would follow, then collapsed.
Remus stood alone in the Shrieking Shack, in the place where he'd once transformed into a monster, where he'd been kept from hurting innocents by friends who'd become Animagi to protect him.
And he thought: *This is what redemption feels like.*
Not grand gestures or heroic sacrifices. Just being given another chance. Being offered forgiveness you didn't quite deserve. Being welcomed into a family that should have every reason to reject you.
Remus Lupin walked out of the Shrieking Shack with his head held higher than it had been in months.
The Marauders—what was left of them—were back.
And this time, they'd do it right.
---
**Agnes's Cottage, Scottish Highlands**
**January 22nd, 1982 - 11:47 PM**
They materialized in the garden to find Agnes waiting on the back step, arms crossed, expression knowing.
"Went well, I take it?" she asked.
"How did you know?" Sirius asked.
"Ye're both smilin' like fools," Agnes said. "An' ye've got that look folk get when they've said things they needed tae say fer too long."
"Remus is coming to visit," Wanda said. "He'll be part of Harry's life. Part of our family."
"Good," Agnes said simply. "The wee lad needs more than jist us. Needs folk who can tell him aboot his da, teach him things we cannae."
They headed inside, the warmth of the cottage enveloping them. Harry was asleep upstairs, his soft breathing audible through the ceiling. Normal. Peaceful. Safe.
"Thank you," Sirius said to Wanda as they stood in the kitchen. "For coming. For watching my back. For not intervening until it was appropriate."
"Thank you for trusting me enough to let me watch," Wanda countered. "And for forgiving Remus. For being bigger than your hurt."
"Learned from the best," Sirius said, his voice soft.
They stood there for a moment, comfortable silence settling between them. Not romantic—not yet, maybe not ever—but something deeper than friendship. Partnership. Family. Trust earned through fire and maintained through choice.
"I should check on Harry," Wanda said finally.
"And I should probably sleep," Sirius said. "Big day tomorrow—we've got a
werewolf to introduce to a toddler. That's bound to be interesting."
"Harry will love him," Wanda predicted. "He loves everyone who's patient with him."
"Then Remus will be perfect."
Wanda headed upstairs, leaving Sirius in the kitchen with Agnes. The older woman was making tea—her solution to everything—and studying Sirius with thoughtful eyes.
"Ye care fer her," Agnes said. Not a question.
"I do," Sirius admitted. "But she's not ready. May never be ready. And I'm okay with that."
"Are ye, though?" Agnes poured two cups and slid one across to him. "Really? Because I see how ye look at her, lad. Like she hung the moon an' the stars both."
"She saved me from Azkaban," Sirius said. "Gave me Harry. Built a family when I thought I'd lost everything. Of course I look at her like that. She's incredible."
"Aye, she is. But incredible people can still hurt ye if they're no' careful. If they dinnae realize how much power they have over yer heart."
"I know," Sirius said quietly. "But I'd rather have her in my life as a friend, as a co-parent, than lose her completely by pushing for more. This—what we have now—it's enough. It has to be."
Agnes studied him over her tea. "Ye're a guid man, Sirius Black. Better than yer family deserved. Better than Wanda probably realizes."
"I'm really not—"
"Hush. I'm payin' ye a compliment. Dinnae ruin it wi' false modesty." Agnes smiled slightly. "Jist... dinnae lose yerself while waitin' fer her tae be ready. Dinnae become so focused on what she needs that ye forget tae need things yerself."
"I'll try," Sirius promised.
"That's all anyone can dae," Agnes said. "Try. An' hope it's enough."
---
Upstairs, Wanda stood in Harry's doorway, watching him sleep. The conversation with Remus had gone better than expected. The recruitment of a conscience—someone to keep her honest, to question her decisions—felt like a smart move.
But she couldn't shake the memory of Sirius's words: *I care about her. How could I not?*
She'd known, of course. Had seen the way he looked at her, the way he always made sure she was comfortable, the way he lit up when she laughed. But hearing him say it to Remus—hearing him accept that nothing might ever come of it—that hurt in ways she hadn't anticipated.
Because she cared about him too. More than was probably wise. More than she was ready to admit.
But loving Sirius felt like betrayal. Vision had been dead for less than a year. Billy and Tommy had been erased mere months ago. How could she move on so quickly? How could she let herself feel something for someone new when she was still grieving everyone she'd lost?
*You're allowed to heal,* a voice whispered in her mind—maybe her own, maybe some echo of a therapist she'd never quite listened to in her world. *You're allowed to love again without it erasing who you loved before.*
Maybe. But knowing something intellectually and *feeling* it were two different things.
Wanda moved to Harry's crib and looked down at him. He slept peacefully, unaware of the complications swirling around him. Unaware that his mother was terrified of hurting more people she loved. Unaware that two Marauders had reunited tonight partly because of him.
"You make everything more complicated, малыш," Wanda whispered. "But also simpler. Because no matter what else happens, you're the center of it all. The reason we try to be better. The reason any of this matters."
Harry sighed in his sleep, one small hand reaching out as if looking for her even in dreams.
Wanda caught that tiny hand gently, marveling as always at how small he was. How trusting. How completely he'd accepted her as his mother despite having known her for such a short time.
*I won't let you down,* she promised silently. *I'll figure out my feelings. I'll work with Remus to stay grounded. I'll protect you from Dumbledore and anyone else who tries to use you. I'll build you a family worth having.*
*I promise.*
From downstairs, she could hear Sirius and Agnes talking quietly, their voices a comfortable murmur. Outside, snow continued to fall, blanketing the Highlands in white. And inside this cottage—this strange, cobbled-together home—a family was slowly, surely being built from broken pieces.
Not a perfect family. Not a traditional one.
But family nonetheless.
And tomorrow, Remus Lupin would join them. Would become part of this strange constellation of people who'd all lost too much but were trying, desperately, to build something better.
One day at a time.
One choice at a time.
One promise kept at a time.
*We can do this,* Wanda thought. *We can raise Harry right. We can be the family he deserves.*
She just hoped the universe would give them the time and space to try.
Because something told her their peace wouldn't last forever. That eventually, the outside world would intrude again. That Dumbledore or the Ministry or some new threat would force them to fight for what they'd built.
But for tonight—for this moment—they were safe.
And that would have to be enough.
---
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