Chapter Text
Me vs Your Friends - The Flat Stanleys
When Remus received his formal invitation to Hogwarts, it wasn't by letter (he later found out through the first conversation with James, Sirius, and Peter that this was unusual). Albus Dumbledore came to see him in person at the children's home. He'd hopped back and forth between a few different ones around Wrexham, but he'd been able to stay at the same one for the past year and a half.
He quite appreciated this, the home had a satisfactory court that proved excellent for basketball. The place often encouraged physical activities, so they scraped together the funds to build a big enough indoor court with a sleek floor they couldn't bring drinks onto.
When Dumbledore appeared that morning, he looked messy. He knew that. He was wearing the grey t-shirt with the black lettering over the sleeve that he couldn't read that all of them wore. His khaki shorts matched his face in the dirt and mud smeared on them.
It'd been six months since Matron last shaved his head but she hadn't had time to reshave it so now instead of looking like a young thug, he just looked like a dirty kid who tried to cut his own hair, his mousy brown waves sticking out at all angles.
His second thought was that this strangely dressed man had made a grave mistake. His third was that the strangely dressed man was either insane or trying to kidnap him.
When he met Dumbledore, it was a grey and gloomy sort of morning and rain had been expected to fall from the sky at any second so nobody was outside playing today. The older kids had struck fear into the younger and now nobody would even cross the treacherous journey from the dorms to the court for fear of being struck by lightning. Which meant Remus had this court all to himself.
This was especially great since he'd spent the last two days recovering from the full moon and had since left the painful stage of healing from a transformation and had entered the sore one which really just meant he acquired a sudden voracious need to stretch his limbs.
His hand-me-down Nikes squeaked on the court in a satisfying kind of way as he ran up to the basket, dribbled the ball, and made his shot. It rolled around the rim of the net for a bit before finally falling in and back down into his hands. He cheered loudly for himself because nobody else was going to, screaming random things such as "Remus Lupin has made a goal!" or " The most spectacular display of persistence we've seen all season!" as he ran the length of the court a few times.
He immediately stopped when he heard what sounded like high-heeled boots clicking across the floor (he had half a mind to tell them off for wearing those onto the court but decided against it). If he'd been making such a ruckus that Matron herself needed to come to see what it was, he was in deep shit. He winced at the thought of what his punishment would be but that thought was cut short when he saw the man standing near the entrance.
He was unlike any other person he'd seen before unless you counted television and other media. He had high buckled shoes and long silver hair that was so long Remus was hardly able to tell the difference between the hair on his head and the man's beard that was also long enough to tuck into his belt.
He was wearing long velvet robes with a purple cloak that had glittering little silver stars and moons sewn into it.
His eyes twinkled behind half-moon spectacles. "That was quite the shot," He smiled kindly. Remus found himself wondering how the man was dry. He was quite aware throughout the conversation that he had aimed his razor-sharp attitude at Dumbledore and was honestly completely disrespectful but as an adult looking back on the experience, he couldn't find it in himself to feel remorse.
The only reason he accepted the post at Hogwarts was to look after his cub (somewhere deep in his core the wolf clawed at him from the inside as his mind shouted " PACK, PACK, PACK."). The promise of Wolfsbane sealed the deal and if he was honest, he was a little excited for the new job.
Of course, he wouldn't be staying long, but free food, free lodgings, free passes to see his cub (" PACK, PACK, PACK." ), and free Wolfsbane? Hell yes.
Harry wasn't planning to stay very long, he never did. However, he'd never guessed he'd be leaving after blowing up his aunt on his birthday. He shoved everything in sight into his suitcase (luckily bewitched with an Enlarging Charm and some homemade secret compartments he added himself last year). He shoved everything from under his loose floorboard into the bag (trying to keep the food intact without taking too much time) before securing it back in place.
He made sure to remember his metal case of a product with which he would be making his profit this year.
He picked up his picture book, filled with always-moving pictures of his parents, and set it down in the luggage rather gently unlike the rest of its contents, then tugged a black hoodie over his head before leaving the room. There was such a ruckus downstairs, everyone screaming and trying to keep Marge from floating into space that he prayed that they wouldn't hear him jog down the stairs with his things.
He risks sneaking into the kitchen to grab more food and water. Everyone's distracted enough and he thinks he could pull it off. He's sneaky enough. He shoved a plastic water bottle into the pocket of his jeans, as well as a clementine orange (his pockets were suspiciously deep).
His cousin gives him a glance with a slight grimace before looking back to the TV. He'd seemed to mature more the past summer and hadn't beat him up very much at all. The thundering of his uncle's footsteps shook the objects on the counter and Harry made to sprint out of the house and grab his things on the way out.
The collar of his hoodie is gripped in a thick red fist, the tips of Vernon's fingers paling with how tight he's holding the fabric. Harry let out a strange choked sound and put out an arm to put distance between him and his uncle. ''You think you can steal from me, boy?!" He bellowed, his face shifting from red to a furious purple.
"Man, get off," Harry grunted, shoving the large man with all his might. Vernon goes to pull on his bangs, something he loves doing because it causes Harry to crane his neck back in discomfort, but Harry backs up, hitting the wall. A large meaty fist comes down and lands on his shoulder, pushing him onto the counter beside him.
His mouth smacked into the edge of the counter and copper filled his taste as a sickening crack rang through the air. His lip stung and his teeth were sore. He was slightly aware of blood now dripping from his nose. "You bring her back! You bring her back now, you put her right!" Vernon demanded. Harry scrambled up the corner between the wall and the counter in an effort to get to his feet.
"No!" He spat. "She deserved what she got!" Harry glared up at the man defiantly. Dudley was no longer watching TV at the dining table. Harry lets out an "Oof!" as he's pushed into the wall again but this time he reaches into his belt loop and grasps his wand.
He points it at Vernon. "Keep away from me," Vernon looked mortified as he scrambled to make sure he was no longer touching him. Distantly, Harry recognized a small bit of blood falling from his nose and tried not to smile at the fit he knew Petunia would have and the idea of her cleaning blood off her floor, god forbid the neighbors somehow see it.
"You're not allowed to do magic outside school." Vernon insisted, more seeming like he was assuring himself rather than talking to Harry as he shook his head frantically.
"Oh yeah?" Harry grinned with his blood-stained teeth. "Try me." He ripped his arm away from the counter and left the kitchen.
"Leave! D-don't come back!" Vernon sputtered as if it was his choice.
"Gladly!" Harry shouted back. He slammed the door behind him and walked down the street, Hedwig hooting the whole way.
Where was he to sleep? He turned onto Wisteria Walk. He supposed he could kip on a bench... that works as good as anywhere else. He could always fly on his broom to London with the Invisibility Cloak.
As he sat down on the curb outside the park, he wondered if he was in trouble with the ministry. They said if he did any more magic, he'd be expelled. He didn't know what he'd do if he was expelled. He ran a frustrated hand through his unruly curls with a groaning sigh.
He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie but it did little to keep him warm. There was a hole at the top of it and air was flowing freely throughout. It didn’t matter. It was almost August, it wasn’t too cold anyway. He exhaled through his teeth, leaning forward to glance down the street. It was ghostly empty.
The streetlight flickered.
The bushes across the street gave a rustle. His head snapped up and he caught the gaze of a great big shaggy black dog. Its eyes were a sharp yellow. It whined at him, its ears going back before barking ferociously.
He wiped the blood off his nose with the knuckle of his index finger, and licking his lip, found that it too was bleeding sluggishly. Slowly, he pulled his wand out. What's a bit more magic? He was already in trouble. "Lumos!" He whispered, holding his wand out.
He took a step back but his leg hit his trunk. Instinctively, he let his hands fly back to cover his head as he fell but this made his wand fly out of his hand and he landed, hard, his spine hitting the edge of the curb bruisingly to join the rest of them.
He tried not to let out a loud cry, biting his tongue.
There was a deafening bang and a sudden blinding light. Harry yelled and crab-walked as fast as he could back onto the pavement. Less than a second later, a gigantic pair of wheels and headlights screeched to a halt exactly where Harry had just been lying. They belonged, as Harry saw when he raised his head, to a triple-decker, violently purple bus, which had supposedly appeared out of thin air.
Panting, Harry leaned over and tried not to retch at the fact that he had very nearly just avoided being steamrolled by a purple fucking bus. Instead, he spat out blood-dyed saliva onto the concrete and let his head fall back as he tried to catch his breath and relax his pulse.
He barely noticed when a teenager leaped out of the bus– or until he began shouting. “Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Jus’ stick out your wand hand, step on board, an’ we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this eve-” He stopped abruptly. He looked down, seemingly just catching sight of Harry, who was still sitting on the ground. Harry made to stand up, scrambling for his wand. “What’re ya doin’ down there?” said Stan.
“Fell over,” Harry blinked, brushing dirt off of his jeans.
“‘Choo fell over for?” Stan snickered.
“Didn’t do it on purpose,” Harry grumbled, suddenly annoyed. The back of his hand was now scraped and burning, bleeding steadily along with the rest of his wounds from protecting his head. What’s even the point of saving yourself from a traumatic brain injury if you’re going to get hurt anyway? He leaned to the side to glance at the bush hidden by the enormous vehicle, suddenly remembering why he’d had his wand out in the first place. There was no sign of the shaggy animal.
“‘Choo lookin’ at?” Stan asked quietly, leaning past the bus too.
“Nothing,” Harry replied hurriedly. He flattened his bangs over his scar before Stan could ask anything about it. “So– so this bus,” He went on quickly, glancing at the assaulting purple with the gold lettering, “did you say it goes anywhere?”
“Yep,” Stan smiled, “Anywhere at all, ‘s long’s it’s on land. Can’t do nuffink underwater. ‘Ere.” Stan narrowed his eyes, “You did flag us down, dincha? Stuck out your wand ‘and, dincha?”
“Yeah, yeah I did,” Harry said quickly. “Listen, how much would it be to get to London?”
“‘Bout eleven Sickles,” Stan replied. “But for firteen, you get ‘ot chocolate, an’ for fifteen you get an ‘ot water bottle an’ a toofbrush in the color of your choice.”
Harry nodded and immediately dropped to his trunk, extracted his money from his bag, and dropped it into Stan’s hand. He and Stan then lift his suitcase, with Hedwig’s cage balanced on top, up the steps of the bus.
There were no seats; instead, half a dozen brass bedstands stood beside the curtained windows. Candles were burning in brackets beside each bed, illuminating the wood-paneled walls. “You ‘ave this one,” Stan whispered, shoving Harry’s stuff under the bed right behind the driver. He was sitting in an armchair in front of the steering wheel. “This is our driver, Ernie Prang. This is-” Stan turns to Harry now, bemused. “What did you say your name was?” Harry wanted to say that he hadn’t said his name at all. Instead, he made one up.
“Er- Nicholas Peterson.”
“This is Nicholas Peterson, Ern.” Ernie Prang, a frail-looking elderly wizard wearing very thick-framed glasses, nodded to him, which caused Harry to nervously flatten his bangs again as he sat down on a bed.
“Take ‘er away, Ern.” Stan sat down in an armchair next to Ernie’s. There was another tumultuous bang, and Harry found himself flat on his bed, thrown backward by the bus’s speed. He spent the bus ride like this, staring at the ceiling and thinking (though the bus made this ridiculously difficult).
The ceiling was blurry as his vision went in and out of focus while he spaced out. He thought about his now possible expulsion from Hogwarts and about Ron and Hermione (his heart gave a lurch) who would most certainly want to help him, fugitive or not. He tried creating a plan in case things went south. He could leave the country, go somewhere else that spoke English, or maybe learn French.
He considered, at one point, joining a group of magical creatures, perhaps a malignity of goblins, or volunteering to be bitten and join a pack of werewolves, but he didn't think goblins took kindly to humans and he felt like it would be disrespectful to werewolves to willingly give himself to lycanthropy, especially when most (if not everyone) considered it to be a curse.
Of course, this wasn't his first time on his own. He'd slept out of the house several times throughout his years with the Dursleys after particularly nasty rows and if you counted it, his entire childhood, really, but he'd always known he'd probably end up going back so he was never really on his own. He had no intention whatsoever of returning this time. This wasn't one of their worst arguments, not even close. He just felt like a thread attaching them... snapped.
Fuck whatever 'blood wards' Dumbledore believed in religiously, what's the point of them anyway if he doesn't even consider Privet Drive his home or the Dursleys his family?
It wasn't until he heard a familiar name in Ernie and Stan's conversation that he tipped his head up (craning his neck uncomfortably from where he was lying on the rickety bed) and saw a familiar face to go with the name on the front of the copy of what must have been this morning's Daily Prophet that Stan was holding.
When he saw Sirius Black on the muggle news the other day, he didn't think much of it. So there was a criminal on the loose. What else is new? But for him to be on the front page of the most popular newspaper in the wizarding world as well...
He must be really dangerous, Harry supposed. He propped himself up on his elbows. "Who's that?"
"Who's who?" Stan's head snaps toward him. Harry points at the newspaper in Stan's hands. "That?" Stan breathes, disbelieving. "That is Sirius Black, that is," The whole bus seems to give a shudder. "He's a murderer. Got himself locked up in Azkaban for it," Stan drawls.
"He was on the muggle news," Harry blinks. He's only heard about Azkaban as the infamous 'inescapable' prison because Hagrid was sent to it last year for a crime he didn't commit. When the great man came back, he was shaking and terrified, like he hadn't had a good sleep for a decade. All color had drained from his face.
"He was, was he? Suppose it makes sense," Stan mumbles, rolling his shoulders awkwardly. Ernie nods along.
"H-How did he escape?" Harry furrows his brow, sitting up straighter.
"Tha's the question, innit? He's the firs' one that done it!" Ernie nodded again.
"Killed an entire street of people with one curse, he did." The old man mumbles. Harry thinks this might be the first time he's heard the man speak (of course, he could've spoken while Harry was spacing out, but he wouldn't know). Stan visibly pales, shaking his head. Harry's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.
"With one curse?" He breathed.
He slowly laid back down. For the rest of the trip, his thoughts were plagued by how he was going to avoid death now with a crazed mass murderer on the loose who was also a wizard and murdered an entire street with a single curse.