Pinky Promise || Wolfstar

Chapter 2

Remus stormed to Dumbledore's office, shouting the password at the gargoyle before he'd even reached it. Maybe he doesn't know, Remus reminded himself as he hurried up the steps, Maybe he trusts them and didn't even consider that they might be abusing Harry.

"Remus, my boy, how are you?" Dumbledore seemed delighted to see him, even as Remus' hands clenched and unclenched by his sides, his nails digging in more each time.

"I'm fine, Headmaster—but I'm not here for me. Did you know about Harry's home situation?"

"What about it?" Dumbledore leaned forwards in his chair, seemingly perplexed.

"He's being abused. He's got scars all over his arms, from them beating him, and not sending him to doctors, and forcing him to cook when he's really young—"

"Yes, it's truly terrible."

Remus had started pacing as he spoke, but stopped dead at Dumbledore's words and his nonchalant tone. He turned, his body unnaturally still. His voice was unusually low as he growled, "You knew?"

"I suspected. They're not the...nicest of people." Dumbledore frowned.

"And you left him in there?" Remus knew, objectively, that he couldn't turn into a wolf unless it was the full moon, but he was feeling pretty damn close to it now.

"Well, you see, when Lily died to protect him, she endowed a special type of counter-charm on him—Sacrificial Protection, which offers him strong protection against Voldemort and his followers—but for the charm to work, he must live with a member of Lily's bloodline—Petunia Dursley. It's just until he's seventeen, in any case."

"Those wards may protect him from Voldemort," Remus hissed, "but they won't mean shit if he kills himself!"

"Don't you think he'd come to one of us, first?" Dumbledore folded his hands together, "Such as his Head of House, or myself?"

"You really don't know what it's like, do you?" Remus looked away in disbelief, trying to blink away the angry tears that filled his eyes, "You don't know what it's like to watch someone give up—if Harry hasn't even confided in his friends about this, do you really think he'd go to the man who put him in this situation to begin with?"

Dumbledore looked at him over the top of his half-moon glasses. "Remus, you're interfering with affairs you don't understand. Please trust me when I say I know what's best for Harry."

"You—Harry—Dursley's—abusive—" Remus spluttered as his mind whirled with accusations and a massive urge to hurl everything in this stupid office at Dumbledore and just take his cub and leave. He took a deep breath and tried again. "The Dursley's are abusing Harry," he managed to say.

Dumbledore assumed his holier-than-thou expression (really, that man should have been a Slytherin) and waited a beat before responding. "Perhaps we should revisit this subject later, when you're feeling less emotional," he suggested, as if he was giving Remus a choice.

Remus stared at him in disbelief before forcing himself to turn towards the door.

"I'm glad you've seen reason," Dumbledore said as Remus stepped out of the room, and it took all of his concentration not to turn around and punch the man in the face then and there for hurting his cub, on purpose, all for a protective charm that might not even work. This was not what Lily had had in mind when she sacrificed herself; he just knew it.

It was fine, really. If Dumbledore wanted to play this game, then so be it—he'd just have to learn how to play.

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Harry's heart was lighter than it had felt in a long time as he left the defence classroom. He was practically floating as he went to talk to Ron and Hermione, dismissing their concerns with a shake of his head and a smile and a 'don't worry about it.' Because really, they didn't need to worry now, did they? Professor Lupin was going to get him out. They didn't need to know.

But a day passed, and then two, and Harry's heart sank. Professor Lupin sent him small smiles in the class, but no more than he sent to anyone else. He didn't pull Harry aside after class to tell him any news, and around the third day Harry realised what had happened.

It was all an empty promise.

The realisation had him excusing himself from dinner, and almost sprinting to the showers, because no one needed to see him cry. Not that anyone would worry about him, anyways.

Everyone was down at dinner, so he quickly locked the bathroom door and practically fell into the shower, switching on the water and sitting under it with his clothes still on. They clung to his skin as salty tears mixed in with the hot water, trickling down his face.

He didn't know why this affected him so much. When had adults ever done anything other than let him down? He really should have expected this—he should never have hoped, for even a second, that he would be able to leave, that he would be free. He shouldn't have put such stock in adults—even if Remus had been nothing but kind. At the end of the day, he was just another adult. Harry had put such faith in Dumbledore his first year—and the old man had sent him right back where he came from. He'd overheard the whispered conversations between Madame Pomfrey and Dumbledore about his home life, yet he'd been sent back anyway.

So much for that pinky promise.