FIC: The Lazarus Curse [SGA/HP] PART IIa
Title: The Lazarus Curse (And Other Reasons Why the Good Can Never Die Young) PART II
Author: Gaia
Rating: R
Pairings: McShep, Lupin/Tonks, Ron/Hermione
Genre: Xover with Harry Potter, drama, humor
Warnings: WIP
Betas: Much thanks to dossier and mecurtin for kicking some sense into me (even if it did result in sulking and procrastination) and to ellex42 for doing the final beta (I swear to god, I have no idea how she can be so creepily good at catching my silly mistakes).
Disclaimer: Don’t own SGA or HP and I’m beginning to think I really wouldn’t want to. Also, I make no money.
Spoilers: Conversion
A/N: Sorry this took so long to update. I had a conflict, which you can probably follow on my LJ. But there shall be no more conflict in future parts (for me, not the characters). I refuse to be Hamlet (aka the dramatic bitch) in this situation. Also, if you think Lupin is OOC here um . . . sorry, I hope I haven't caused you permanent emotional strife. Please find solace in the fact that it's a lot better than it was before.
Summary: In case you haven't been following, this is the SGA/Harry Potter xover in which John is James Potter. In this part, Rodney gets jealous, Remus gets curious, Draco is saved, and Ronon shoots things. Also, John explains a few things and Hermiod receives a gift.
Link to Part I
THE LAZARUS CURSE
And Other Reasons Why the Good Can Never Die Young
By Gaia
Link to Part I
PART II:
“I’m worried about him,” Hermione whispered, pointing down and out the window towards where Harry Potter sat, gazing out at the sparkling blue of the lake. He was tall and lanky now - thin and sickly looking even without taking into account the bulky white bandaging around his right arm.
“Who?” Ron asked distractedly, turning his attention back to the thick tome that lay before him. Who cared about the Bloody Mary Curse, anyhow? Ron certainly wasn’t dumb enough to try to summon ghosts. Getting glares and claims of being ‘insensitive’ from Nearly Headless Nick were enough for him, thank you very much.
“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, gearing up for one of her morally superior rants. “Ron, I can’t believe . . .”
“I know who, Hermione. I’m not a total git. Look, I just don’t know what you expect me to do about it. I’ve tried talking to him,” Ron indicated his left ear, which was still looking a bit wrinkled after taking a well placed Hickly-Pickly curse. “He’s Harry. He won’t tell us until he’s good and ready.”
“But we know about his injury. Ron, we have to find out more about the Dark Mark.”
Ron grimaced. It wasn’t like they hadn’t fought too. It wasn’t as though they didn’t have the right to be just as traumatized as Harry. Ron thought he could still hear Neville screaming, Professor Lupin as a wild animal, human blood dripping from a wolf’s wide smile, and Lucius Malfoy screaming and begging for mercy (it wasn’t the glorious moment he’d imagined). How much worse could Harry’s encounter with you-know-who have been? And it wasn’t as though he’d lost . . . well, then again, Harry barely had anyone left to lose.
“Hermione, that’s Harry’s business. Like I said, we should just wait. He’ll tell us when he’s ready.”
Hermione stood at that, reaching across the table to grab Ron by the jaw (which wasn’t half as sexy as it really should be), turning his head until he looked out the library window to the scene below. “Ronald Weasley. Harry is your best friend. Are you really going to wait until it’s too late?”
Ron gulped. He most definitely did not possess ‘the sight,’ but if it ever were possible for him to see the Grim, he’d imagine it would be circling Harry like a vulture at this very moment. “Well it beats Bloody Mary,” he offered weakly, closing his book.
Hermione narrowed her eyes, not entirely satisfied, but stood and stalked over to the Restricted Section of the library. Madame Pince looked up from her post, but even she knew better than stop the brightest witch of their age.
It was Hermione’s innocent and terrified face that he saw every time he closed his eyes, Bellatrix Lestrange’s body turned inside-out at her feet.
<<<>>>
If it hadn’t been for the crutches, Rodney would have taken John back to his quarters himself. Instead he had to settle for watching Ronon push the man along in a wheelchair, Teyla walking beside him and laughing animatedly to distract John from his constant designs on escape from the chair.
“Just like you, Sheppard, to make it all the way to the Gate before getting shot.”
“You and Dr. McKay did navigate the cave incredibly quickly,” Teyla remarked. “Even Ronon had trouble with those large boulders in the last section.”
“I did not,” Ronon grumbled.
“Well, Rodney and I managed just fine,” John said, voice low and calm like there hadn’t been any precipice at all, and certainly not any suspicious bouncing.
“Fine, if you consider . . .” Rodney began, only to have John forcefully interrupt.
“I do consider.”
Teyla looked at them, perplexed, but didn’t say anything. On one hand, Rodney hated it when she treated them the same way she did the arrow-wielding aliens, but on the other hand, it was good not to be questioned.
“I got down it quicker than you did,” Ronon said.
John was smirking. Rodney could tell by the sound of his voice. “I’m sure you did. Well, what do you know? It looks like we’re here. Thanks so much for the . . .” he gestured vaguely. “You know. I can walk from here.”
Teyla narrowed her eyes, but didn’t object. “I am glad you are feeling well, John. Heal quickly.”
John nodded. “I will.”
“Yeah, you need to get better so I can kick your ass at that ball game again.”
John levered himself to his feet, Teyla hovering close in case he fell. “Which one?” he grunted.
“All of them.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. When I’m fully recovered.” Which Rodney was betting would be whenever some fluke alien mojo suddenly disadvantaged tall freakishly-athletic ape-men. Either that or the next time John turned into a giant bug or some other animal. Hopefully something nice this time - maybe a rabbit or a deer. He snorted to himself. Sheppard would make a horrible Bambi.
Rodney hobbled over to the door, not really expecting any sort of sympathy “Well, I’ll be seeing you guys. Sheppard . . .” he tried snapping his fingers, but the crutches were sort of in the way. “I need to get . . . that thing I left in your quarters.”
“What’s that, McKay? Your virtue?” Ronon smirked over his shoulder on the way out, Teyla grinning half amused and half in sympathy.
John just sighed, resigned, making his way into the room and lowering himself carefully onto the bed. Rodney followed, nearly falling and killing himself tripping over a golf club. “How did you survive the military?” Rodney asked, surveying the mess. “You couldn’t bounce a beach-ball off those sheets, not to mention a coin,” he gestured to the tangled mess of covers.
“And whose fault is that?” John asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Oh . . .” He’d forgotten. They’d used John’s room last time.
“I figured we’d just mess them up again,” John said, spreading his legs until their thighs pressed together.
Rodney felt his mouth run dry. God, no matter how hot he was, John shouldn’t be able to still do this to him. They’d been sleeping together for too long. Rodney leaned forward almost automatically. His mouth was dry, but John’s looked invitingly wet . . . slick like those rocks had been back in the cave . . . “Hey! I’m on to you, Colonel. No trying to distract me with your . . . your manly wiles.”
John licked his lips, looking down at where Rodney was already half-hard. “It seems like you’re doing a pretty good job of distracting yourself.”
Rodney grabbed a nearby pillow and whacked John in the head with it, careful of his bandaged shoulder.
“Hey! That’s my line,” John protested, trying to lean around Rodney and grab the other pillow.
“No, your line is the one where you explain to me how in the hell we survived a 30 meter drop without so much as a scratch.”
John looked down at his hand, resting comfortably in a sling. “I don’t know, Rodney. It was dark. I couldn’t see the ground with my light and neither could you. It probably wasn’t as long a fall as we thought. And it was pretty slick at the bottom - the mud could act like mattress. I think we should . . .”
“I know how long it took for my flashlight to hit. It had to be at least . . .”
“Time slows when you think you’re going to die. Rodney, these things happen. I once saw a Marine just lose it and go running straight into a line of about twenty enemy soldiers without even a scratch. It’s either a fluke or it’s a miracle. You thank your lucky stars and then you move on. Unless you want to go back to the land of the arrow-wielding natives and their nice muddy cave and pull a Myth Busters, there isn’t anything we can do about it.”
“But . . .” maybe Rodney was wrong. Maybe it had just been fear and adrenaline and the whole interfering life-flashing-before-eyes thing, but, “I . . . Sheppard, I know there was a significant amount of panic involved on my part, but I think we bounced.”
“We could have. A slope or a series of plateaus could have broken the fall. It still hurt like hell.”
Rodney squinted. He’d have to work out the calculations later, but he supposed it could have been something like that. But then again . . . . “Why’d you lie to Ronon and Teyla then?”
“I figured it would be better if they didn’t ask for the details. Rodney, I don’t want to have to explain to them why I jumped off a cliff after you. That saying’s supposed to be cautionary.”
“Why did you? Jump off a cliff after me, I mean.”
“I . . .” John turned so that they were facing each other, reaching out a hand to cup Rodney’s cheek. “I meant it . . . what I said.” So, not a hallucination then. Rodney: 1, voices in his head: 5 (if you counted Cadman).
“You . . .”
“Yeah.” John leaned forward until his breath was tickling against the hairs of Rodney’s post-infirmary shadow. “You want this, right?”
A few minutes of crushing their lips together later, Rodney came up for air long enough to pant, “Of course I want this, you idiot. I’ve wanted this from the beginning.”
John looked pained. “I’m sorry,” he said, awkwardly.
Rodney shrugged. “Better late than never . . .”
The sex was a little awkward, trying to avoid both their injuries. They tried sixty-nining, but he couldn’t put pressure on his wrapped ankle, and when they tried laying on their sides, Rodney couldn’t seem to get inside John without using John’s shoulder as leverage. In the end, they ended up lying side-by-side just jerking each other off.
“Well, that was unsatisfying,” Rodney grumbled, despite the fact that he was at least somewhat sated.
John just slowly pushed himself up so that he leaned down over Rodney, lips swollen and just inches away. “We could always make out some more.”
Rodney grinned. He was tired and hurting, but he pulled John down towards him anyway. “Good plan.”
<<<>>>
When Rodney woke up, it was to a cold bed and an empty room. Again.
“Why am I not surprised?” he asked himself. When did Sheppard ever let anything be simple? He had to be all closed-off and stoically-tortured or he just wasn’t happy. “The man is perverse.”
Rodney stumbled out of bed, rubbing his eyes. “Coffee?” he asked tentatively. Maybe John’s room was more responsive that his.
Oh well. Maybe Carson had some of the good stuff brewing down in the infirmary. Rodney had no idea where the man got the stuff. Even when they’d been cut off from Earth, Carson seemed to have an infinite supply of Colombian ground.
Rodney sighed . . . coffee. He yanked his shirt off and fumbled blindly around for a clean one. Coffee first and sorting out intimacy-challenged Air Force officers second.
It wasn’t a long trip down to the lab, but Rodney spent the entire time thinking about John anyhow. With John it was always two steps forward and one step back. Rodney finally got the man into bed, then Chaya happened and he wouldn’t even hear Rodney’s professional opinion. He finally got Sheppard to admit he trusted him and then they almost ended their friendship over it. John finally admitted they’re in a relationship and then left Rodney without a word the next morning.
Rodney really didn’t appreciate this self-destructive streak, but then again, what did he expect from Sammy Suicide? It was like Sheppard wanted to die sacrificing himself.
And besides, how did he know this whole fiasco hadn’t been another one of John Sheppard’s patented deflections? Like a perfect magician, he’d have you so fixated on the charming smile and flirtatious banter that you’d miss the way he was fixing the cards behind his back.
Rodney huffed, blowing through the infirmary doors and spoiling for an argument. He’d go with a sneak attack - a stealthy grab for the coffee, a single draining sip, and a few choice insults to Carson’s line of work and all of the sheep-fornication in his lineage.
But before he made it even to the coffee maker, he heard voices, soft and hissing in agitated whispers.
“I’m not sure he bought it.” That was John talking.
Rodney slipped in closer, ducking behind a gurney and then moving over to the wall of Carson’s office. Well, sort of . . . he blamed it on the crutches. Luckily for him, the door was jammed open just a sliver - someone had dropped a pen in just the right place to keep it from shutting, even if the two ATA genes inside had thought the walls opaque.
“But you know Rodney - you wouldn’t be needing a sneakoscope to tell when the man’s lying to ya.” What the hell was a sneakoscope? It sounded interesting. Zelenka must’ve been hiding things from him again - that fuzzy little weasel.
“I know.”
“You’d better watch yourself, Colonel. I broke up with Laura when she got too close.” Ah, so the conspiracy was really afoot. John and Carson . . . too much hair gel must be a calling card.
“So I’m supposed to listen to a deserter lecture me about duty to my people?” Deserter? Carson couldn’t even hit the target, let alone the bulls-eye. Could he really have been in the army? Then again, men in Scotland did wear skirts.
John was really angry, voice raised far above what could possibly still count as whispering. “I’ve sacrificed more than you’d ever know for duty. Why can’t I just have this?”
Carson sighed, “Because Rodney McKay isn’t the kind of person you can love and still keep secrets from.”
Rodney gulped. What were they hiding? What was so big that John couldn’t tell him? They saved each others’ lives, trusted each other. Was there even anything about Rodney that John didn’t know?
“No, he’s not. But what good would it do? Everyone has a past. Why does mine have to be so special?”
“I don’t think everyone else’s pasts include . . .”
Include what? Rodney leaned forward anxiously, overbalancing and going careening into a supply cart, which knocked what seemed like the expedition’s entire supply of bedpans onto his head.
“Ow!” His ankle twinged as he landed hard on the floor. Serious, the infirmary was no place for injured people.
Carson was already at the door, his expression frozen somewhere between concern and disgust. John, on the other hand, seemed stuck on disgust.
“Are these clean?” Rodney asked at the same time John growled, “Spying on me now, McKay?”
“No . . . no . . . I was just . . . ah . . . I was inspecting . . . looking for a curved metal surface for an experiment . . . Doctor . . . er . . . Doctor Green was just . . .”
John crossed his arms over his chest. “Dr. Green is a marine biologist.”
“So?”
“So, you don’t talk to the marine biologists, Rodney,” Carson sighed, helping Rodney to his feet and handing him an icepack.
“Well, I wanted to ask about . . .”
Two accusatory glares settled on him.
“Oh, all right, fine! I just heard you say my name and I came over to investigate.” Not the whole truth, but close enough.
John squinted, scrutinizing him. “You were still going to spy.”
“I . . .” well, there wasn’t a lot that he could say to that. “Well . . . yeah, all right, I was planning to spy.”
John narrowed his eyes.
“I’m sorry?”
John nodded. “I’ll see you later, Carson,” he said, walking slowly out without looking back.
“Don’t forget your medication, Colonel! I know you don’t like pain meds, but they’ll reduce the swelling.”
While Carson was busy nagging, Rodney made a desperate grab for his crutches.
“Not so fast, laddie. I think I forgot a few shots on your last physical . . .” That tyrant.
“Vengeful isn’t a good look on you, Carson, though I’m sure the sheep quake with terror. And besides, why should I feel bad about spying on you when the two of you are busy hiding things from me?”
“Well,” Carson said, suddenly studying his stethoscope very intently, “did you ever consider the possibility that we’re hiding things for your own good?”
“What could you possibly hide from me that would make me better off? If I don’t know about something, then I can’t fix it.”
Carson shook his head. “Just you leave John alone. Lord knows the man’s had enough to deal with already.”
“But Carson . . .”
“You have to respect his wishes, Rodney. If you really care about him, that’s what you’ll do.”
Rodney hated it when Carson got like this - all sparkling blue eyes and naïve sincerity. It was Carson’s ‘I can save the world’ look and Rodney wanted nothing to do with it. But Carson did get a part of it right - John was a good man, but he was stubborn as a mule. If he pushed the issue, John’d just push back harder.
“Fine,” Rodney agreed, “I won’t ask him about it.”
That didn’t cover spying and subterfuge, however.
<<<>>>
Remus, suddenly aware of all the muggles surrounding him, made to pull out his wand for an easy obliviation, but James grabbed his hand to stop him. “No wand use. You can’t confound the security cameras.”
“The what?”
James just rolled his eyes. “So I wouldn’t exactly prefer my men catching their commander in a ‘manly embrace,’ but it’s okay. We’ll just say that I met you at school. You did an exchange at USC.”
“USC?”
“The muggle school I said I went to. American, you wouldn’t have heard of it. C’mon. Let’s find somewhere where we can catch up.”
Remus nodded. Merlin’s beard, it was just so good to see James. He realized he was grinning like he’d just been the victim of an overzealous cheering charm, but he couldn’t help it. It was James, the only other member of their little group left alive, Remus’ best friend, lost for so many years.
He’d been so busy grinning that he’d failed to notice this amazing building they seemed to be in up until now. From the view though the window it looked like a castle, full of towers and spires and vast only made of metal and glass and floating in the middle of the ocean. “This is amazing, James.”
James chuckled. “For the record, it’s John. And . . . yeah, it really is.”
“We’re floating?”
“Cool, isn’t it?” James grinned. It was a bright excited grin, even though there was a dullness to it that hadn’t been there even at the height of the war.
“I suppose,” Remus responded, speaking slowly - there was a wonder in James’ tone too - like there were things here that were even better than magic.
It wasn’t long before they reached what Remus assumed to be James’ quarters. The room wasn’t particularly large, but James had never needed much space. Or material objects, and it looked as though the same was true here. It was the same old James Potter.
Instead of a poster for the Chudley Cannons, he had some muggle vocalist. A bag of mallets instead of a broomstick was leaning haphazardly in the corner. No pictures (James had never had pictures - he was an only child and he’d never thought much of his parents), but there was a large stylized piece of unmoving artwork, though Remus didn’t see the point of a large board with ‘hang ten’ written on it. And the room was noticeably neater than James’ had always been. But . . . there it was, the one thing that James Potter would never be without - a small golden ball sitting placidly on his nightstand.
Remus walked over and picked it up, tossing it up and down in the air while it was still deactivated.
James chuckled. “If you release it, you’re going to have to catch it, Moony.”
Remus put it down immediately. He was a fine wizard and a fair duelist, but he’d never quite mastered any motions outside of ‘swish and flick.’
“Thought so,” James smirked, lowering himself carefully down onto the bed, wincing and bracing the restrained arm.
Remus pulled out his wand. “Want me to fix that for you?”
James shook his head. “No, thank you. Carson’s used a few spells on me when I’ve been particularly bad off, but I can’t heal too quickly - the muggles might get suspicious. And since when are you a mediwizard anyhow? Don’t think I don’t remember that time you tried to heal those scratches you gave Sirius and ended up turning his whole side purple.”
Remus laughed. Sirius had been so mad, James had to tackle him and hold him down to keep him from cursing anyone. “Well, he healed, didn’t he?”
“And he had to miss out on his big date in the Prefect’s bathroom.” James almost snorted with laughter.
“It’s a good thing he did! That Rita Skeeter woman he was so enamored with . . . she went on to write for the Daily Prophet - now there’s a sneaky little journalist if I ever saw one. You wouldn’t believe the stuff she was printing about Harry!”
Their laughter stopped dead in its tracks. James stood up, tensed and suddenly fierce, just like Remus remembered him during the war - that first battle when he himself hid and James singlehandedly captured three Death Eaters.
“It’s alright, James. I don’t know the exact details of what happened, but let’s just say that Harry has some very good friends to protect him.”
James’ eyebrows inched together with worry, his mouth going into that pouting pucker that had always made Remus crack and Lily laugh. “What kind of friends?”
Remus laughed. “Good ones. Hermione Granger, muggle born, smartest witch of her generation. And Ronald Weasley . . .”
“Ah, the Weasley clan. Last time I saw them, they had about five. Molly had a bun in the oven.”
“Yes, that’s the one - Ron. He’s not the most talented of the bunch, but he’s as good a friend to your son as you could hope. They remind me of you and Sirius, only, well . . . slightly less . . . haphazard in their mischief-making.”
James laughed, face going slack and child-like in the expression that seemed to work on everyone except Remus. “Hey, that was all Sirius.”
Remus surprised himself by actually snorting. “Yes, and I’m a Weird Sister. I seem to remember somebody concocting an elaborate scheme to steal all of Professor Dumbledore’s socks.”
“They were bright pink! I was saving the man from himself! And besides, it was Sirius that came up with the unraveling spell.”
Remus shook his head.
“Speaking of Sirius, do you think we should go get him out of storage? I heard from Lieutenant Novak that somebody had smuggled a dog.”
“It wasn’t Sirius.”
“Oh.” James seemed perplexed.
“It was me.”
“What?! Moony, you didn’t . . . you have no right to . . .”
Remus reached out and gripped James by his good shoulder. “It’s alright, I took a potion. I suppose it was after your time when it was discovered. I still turn into a wolf, but docile, in control of my actions.”
James nodded. Then he bit his lip, eyes wide in sudden realization. “Sirius?”
Remus hung his head. It had been more than two years but it still hurt like a wound - a pervasive ache that he wasn’t sure would ever heal. “Dead.”
James stood, pacing over to the strange piece of muggle art. “Goddamnit,” he whispered under his breath. “Fuck.” It sounded strange - strange American accent, strange American words. His shoulders were tensed, and his hand was shaking as he ran it through his hair, but there was no giant outburst, no fits of random magic and rage and blame like there’d been when they got word of the Longbottoms. James had torn their little camp apart, and only Lily’s voice, soft and commanding, had reeled him in.
Maybe he’d mellowed with age. Or, an even more frightening possibility - he was used to this kind of bad news.
“James,” Remus murmured, pretending that his friend didn’t flinch when he guided him back to the bed.
James’ eyes flashed, no longer hiding beneath the protective sheen of glasses. “Who else?”
Remus wrung his hands. He was used to being straightforward - firm but gentle with students. But there was always something about James, whether he was being rash and boastful or brave or angry or excited, you just wanted to protect him - as though if you tried hard enough, you could make reality bend to accommodate him just how he seemed to expect it to.
“Damnit, Moony! Who else?”
Remus gulped. He felt the bitter taste of self-disgust gather on the back of his tongue as he thought: start with the less important ones. Work your way up. “Peter’s dead.”
James sat silently, looking away. Back in the war he might have said that the man deserved it, but Remus doubted that James could’ve maintained his temper into adulthood.
“Well . . .” Remus took a deep breath and then continued. “Professor Flitwick, Arthur Weasley, Amelia Bones, Cornelius Fudge - he was Minister of Magic; Hagrid,” he’d almost started mentioning students - so many young ones gone before their time. But then again, James never even had the chance to know them. “Sirius’ cousin Bellatrix . . . the Malfoys, some more of the staff . . . I don’t think you ever knew Professor Sprout?, Mundungus - I know, not even cockroaches can live forever.”
That didn’t get even a chuckle.
“Wesley Prewett, Darren Dawlish - he’d become an Auror, you see; Julia Belby - Julia McKinnon, that was.”
James nodded, looking quiet, but expectant. Of course he’d know that Remus would save the worst for last. “Dumbledore.”
James sucked in a harsh surprised breath. “How?” he whispered.
Remus turned away. “It was war,” he finished, reaching out to pull James into a stiff hug. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” James whispered, relaxing into the loose embrace after a long minute.
Remus nodded, letting his arms drop to his sides, even though there was no way he could agree. There was a lot to be sorry for, James must know that better than anyone.
<<<>>>
Rodney looked at his watch. Okay, he’d given John 3 hours 47 minutes and approximately 12 seconds to get over his little . . . whatever it was - with John he could never tell. Now it was time to go find him and, well, capitalize on this new thing they had going on.
Rodney was a patient person - mostly. He could wait. He’d just have to sit around and endure all the kissing and the blowjobs and all the other benefits of finally being with John until he opened up and . . . who was he kidding? He’d probably blurt something out a few minutes into their next conversation.
Rodney shook his head, making his way towards John’s quarters. The man was supposed to be resting, but that was no guarantee that he’d be there. Rodney stepped up to John’s door and commanded himself with a deep breath, ‘Do not flip out on him. Do not flip out on him.’
And just as he though he had everything under control, the door to John’s room swished open to reveal . . . who the hell was this and what was he doing in John’s room? The guy wasn’t taller than either of them, but he looked longer somehow, even more thin and lanky than John. His hair was graying and a little wild, but not in that same artfully tossed way employed by certain Air Force Lieutenant Colonels who shall not be named. He wore one of the yellow-paneled tan expedition jackets that indicated the ‘squishy sciences’ and probably the most hideous shirt Rodney had ever seen (and he owned quite a few hideous shirts). Anthropologists - always trying to be more-cross-cultural-than-thou.
“Who is this?” Rodney asked, not particularly tactfully.
“I exchanged at USC,” the man replied in a thick British accent.
Rodney spared him the cursory glance he reserved especially for social scientists, before turning to John, who was still looking pale and maybe a little nervous. “What are you doing with an anthropologist in your quarters?”
“None of your business, Rodney,” John growled. Oh yeah, the man didn’t like to be bossed around - why was Rodney always forgetting that?
Rodney sighed, turning back to the mysterious man. “USC, eh? Did you meet John at a football game?” Because painting your face red and gold and sharing a name in common with a package of condoms would clearly be something Mr. All-American Flyboy would hire someone for.
“Football?” The man asked, looking quizzical.
John laughed and slung an arm the anthropologist (the man looked like he just climbed out of some ancient tome, clearly his profession). “Rodney, this is Remus Lupin, buddy of mine from back at school. Remus, this is Dr. Rodney McKay, Chief Science Officer, astrophysicist and professional pain in my ass.”
Rodney rolled his eyes. He hated being right. Pretty soon there’d be keggers and frat parties and more Doug Flutie than even when Ronon had joined the team and he and John had spent days in one of the old warship hangars throwing passes. Also . . . Pinloop? What the hell kind of name was that, even for a Brit? It sounded like a lewd sex act, or maybe a kind of prescription drug designed to propagate lewd sex acts.
“Nice to meet you, Doctor,” Pinloop said, straightening up and shaking Rodney’s hand. His grip was stronger than the man looked.
“Sure,” Rodney replied, earning him a glare from John. “Not that nepotism isn’t great and all, but what exactly are you doing here?”
Pinloop smiled. “I’ve been hired by Anthropology, for help with translation work.”
Rodney rolled his eyes. Hole in one. “Yes, yes, very exciting. John, I was just going to do . . . that thing . . . with the . . . widgets, in my quarters, if you want to . . .” he pointed over his shoulder.
John smiled at him placidly. “Another time, Rodney. I’m gonna give Remus the grand tour. Because I’m so useful around here,” he gestured to his injured arm.
“Oh,” Rodney sagged, disappointed and eying the anthropologist. He wasn’t much to look at and he certainly didn’t live up to his porn star name, but then again, Rodney wasn’t exactly in John’s league either. And the man and John clearly got along. According to Ronon (which wasn’t always the most reliable source, considering that he once thought Elizabeth offering him honorary American citizenship was a marriage proposal), John had once been married (though there was no official record of it). Maybe that was because gay marriage wouldn’t have been legal at the time.
Rodney gulped. “Well, then I’ll . . . I’ll come with you.”
John looked down at his feet, his little embarrassed look. “Actually, I was sort of hoping to get the chance to catch up. I haven’t seen Remus in nearly seventeen years.” He looked honestly apologetic, but also a little bit sneaky. What the hell was going on here?
“I . . .” Rodney was about to object when he noticed the look in John’s eyes, all of the previous look of paranoia melting away. John looked happy.
John clapped him on his shoulder. “I’ll be by later tonight. We’ll see what we can do about your widgets.” He winked, before grabbing hold of Pinloop’s arm and ambling off.
Rodney could barely make out Pinloop’s murmured comment, “I don’t think the doctor likes me.”
“Don’t worry,” John replied. “Rodney’s default is suspicion. He’ll warm up to you.” Sure, if warm meant Antarctica in the dead of winter.
<<<>>>
No sooner had Rodney swung off down the corridor, than James had turned them back around and into his quarters.
“I almost forgot,” James sighed, looking him over. “First thing’s first - we have to do something about those clothes. You’ve got your expedition uniform, which is good, but . . . where did you even get that shirt, Moony?”
“India. It’s a formal . . .”
“It looks like a muumuu. Look, just stick to plain black shirts and you’ll be fine.”
Remus shrugged. James looked good in everything; Remus didn’t know what the man wore his robes inside out at high society dinner parties would be worried about. “I wore one every day in the temple. They said my robes were too hot.”
James shook his head. “What were you doing in India?”
“I heard there was a cure there . . . for my . . . condition. Turns out I was wrong, though. The cure was more along the lines of giving myself food poisoning so even the wolf would be too sick to eat anyone.”
“Hey, if we’d know that, Sirius and I could’ve cured you long ago.”
Remus laughed. “No thanks. After that holiday I’m never letting you near a kitchen again, not even one of those muggle things with the square of dry noodles.
“So that’s where you went after the war? India?”
“For a while. It’s fascinating there. Some of the old texts take a completely different angle on spellmaking. It’s about the sounds of the words as much as their meaning. Most of it bordering on dark magic, but with a different flair. Ministry over there’s not to organized though - hundreds of wizards out on the streets doing healings and making ropes dance like snakes and all sorts of things and they deport me when after five years they get around to checking my paperwork and find out I’m a werewolf.”
James shrugged. “Go figure. Where’d you head to next?”
“Up to the border of Nepal - tried this meditation technique that kept the wolf at bay for a few cycles, but it wasn’t reliable,” he looked down at his hands. He could still hear those children screaming, calling out in a language unknown to him about a monster. He’d just been lucky that the wizard with him knew a good strong stunning charm. “I went through China, Romania. I met an Englishmen there - Arthur and Molly’s son, actually. He told me about the Wolfsbane potion and I headed back to England. Dumbledore offered me a job, you know. Teaching. I taught your son.”
“Yeah?” James asked, tentative and almost shy.
“Master of Defense Against the Dark Arts, that boy. You should’ve seen it, James. A Patronus in his third year.”
“A Patronus? Really?”
Remus nodded, careful not to mention the circumstances under which he’d taught Harry. “Oh, yes, and you’d never guess what form it took: a stag. Like father, like son, I assume.” Though James’ Patronus had been a falcon, sleek and shimmering as it dove down on dementors like they were prey.
“Really?” James looked caught somewhere between pride and shame, though the man had nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn’t as though he could help having been dead.
“And I haven’t seen anyone more natural on a broom since well . . . you. Not that I’m particularly knowledgeable about Quiditch,” and that was something that had always annoyed James and Sirius to no end, “but he was a fine Seeker. The boy could give you a run for your money. He even made the team first year. Youngest seeker in a century.”
James chuckled. “Remember how badly I wanted that title?”
Remus snorted. “I thought you were going to cry when your father forbade you try out. Instead you just broke all Sirius’ poor soldiers at wizard’s chess and made an involuntary snowstorm in the dormitory.”
“And, wow, was McGonagall mad.”
“But by the time you two graduated, she was used to it.”
“The two of us, Moony? I seem to remember a certain someone teaching the giant squid how to call people ‘wankers.’”
“That was only because you two wankers thought it would be fun to test your island-making spell by leaving me in the middle of the lake!”
“It was only for an hour and it saved you four hours detention with Filch. He made us clean one of the dungeons with muggle cleaning supplies.”
Remus laughed. He remembered the way the two of them smelled for days after that - like rain and sneezes. Or rather, he was always sneezing around them. “But you’re a muggle now. Certainly you have to do those things?”
James shook his head. “Nah. That’s why I like the military. Cleaning’s what Airmen are for. And in Atlantis the Ancient machines take care of things.” He shrugged.
“So you like it here?”
“Yeah,” James laughed. “I do.”
Remus never would’ve thought - James Potter, the man who’d shown up in Remus’ house through the Floo network, panicked because he had no idea how to help his wife’s sister out with the dishes, actually enjoying life among muggles.
He looked over at James . . . John. He looked relaxed, almost happy. Funny, considering that he was not only living among muggles, but in another galaxy where there were apparently creatures that ate people’s souls. Sure, the dementors did something similar, but there was always the Patronus spell . . . in the Wizarding world, the only thing you really had to fear was other wizards.
“So . . . Rodney,” Remus raised his eyebrows. “What exactly are widgets?”
James ran a hand furtively through his hair. “You know, I have no idea.”
“How long?” Remus asked quietly. He’d seen that special smile on James’ face - the one he’d only seen in relation to Lily.
James shrugged his good shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s nothing serious.”
Right here was where Sirius would’ve tackled him, forcing him down until he gave it up for the lie that it was. Remus just sighed, changing the subject. “What happened to your glasses?”
James grinned. “Muggle invention. They take this laser beam - kind of like a cutting curse - and shoot it at your eye. Moves the lens or something . . .”
“Lens?” Remus asked. As far as he knew, eyes were eyes. “You mean they put the glasses in your eye?” He supposed it could be done with some sort of transfiguration. Maybe an animagus like James could just transform his eye and nothing else.
“No, no, you have a lens in your eye already. That other thing is a contact. I know it sounds disgusting, but it’s how muggles get on without mediwitches. They work on the body and not the spirit.”
Interesting concept. Remus frowned. “Isn’t that what Carson was always working on back in school?”
James nodded. “He’s good at it too - muggle medicine, though without a few steadying charms, I doubt he’d be able practice both surgery and genetics.”
Remus had never heard either of those words before. He shrugged. Muggles had strange names for things - especially American ones. Like that game of theirs - the one they called football even though they rarely touched their feet to the ball.
“You two getting along now?” Remus asked, curious. James had never liked the young Ravenclaw, even back in their schooldays. James certainly had never been prejudiced against muggles - right now he was living proof that at least someone paid attention during muggle studies, and he’d married a muggle-born, fought in the Great War, and hated Slytherin and their blood-pride more than anyone. He just didn’t understand why Carson was so proud of being able to do things the muggle way. He was a wizard, after all - why did he need all that?
James shrugged. “He’s a deserter.”
“Some might say you are too,” Remus pointed out.
“I left under orders. He left because he was scared.”
“His mum called him back home. In those days it was safer to be a muggle in Scotland than a wizard in England. I don’t blame her.”
“Because he was a wizard! Fighting was the right thing to do, and you know it.”
Remus sighed. They’d had this argument before. He wasn’t eager to have it again.
“So, the real question, James. What happened to you? How did you manage to get yourself all the way out here?”
James shrugged. It was more subtle than it used to be, but it was the same macho thing from when they were kids - his ‘bludgers just bounce off me’ expression. It didn’t work on Remus. “By accident, mostly.”
“You don’t die and come back to life by accident. Not even Voldemort could manage that.”
James cringed. “You mean he-who-shall-not-be-named?”
Remus’ shrug was genuine. He’d forgotten that James hadn’t seen the age when his own son used the word like a weapon. “He’s dead. What does it matter?”
“So Harry . . .” James looked uncertain, wary, but almost painfully hopeful.
“He’s fine. Back at Hogwarts now, finishing up his seventh year.” Remus reached out, grabbing James’ arm, surprised at the muscle on the previously wiry frame. “You can see him now, James.”
“I . . .” James didn’t like to let it show, but Remus could see the moisture sparkling at the corners of his eyes. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I abandoned him, Moony! I left him all alone in a world of monsters, living with those awful muggle in-laws of mine, having to fight a war against the darkest wizard of our history without even the support of a parent. He’ll hate me.”
Remus sighed. He’d forgotten James’ dark and desperate moods - his natural optimism giving way to fatalism when looking back. “You’re his father.”
“He’s lived his whole life as an orphan.”
Remus wanted to shout or punch something or just grab James’ shoulders and shake until he understood. He too had given way to this sort of self-condemnation before - when what he was and what he’d done mattered more than the person he could be. He wouldn’t do it again. But then again, Remus always played the role of the reasonable one.
“Is that why you didn’t come back?” he asked, knowing full well that the James Potter he knew would never go quietly.
James shook his head. “I . . . there are laws. I was dead - I was stuck on another plane of existence, forced to just sit back and watch everything going on down below. I don’t remember much from my time there. When I came back, I didn’t even remember that. They found me naked in the middle of a cornfield in Kansas - punishment for interfering in human affairs.”
“What’d you do?”
“I don’t remember clearly, but I saw Harry and you-know-who in a graveyard and he was going to . . . I couldn’t let him.”
Remus gasped. He remembered Harry’s account of the encounter - how he and Voldemort’s wands had locked and how his parents came back to give him the time to escape.
“So it wasn’t really the spell then?”
James shook his head.
“Lily? Did she come back too?”
“No. Not all who die . . . her soul went into saving Harry.”
“If you were in Kansas, how’d you . . .”
“I met with Dumbledore. He had a theory. I don’t know if I should have listened or not, but . . . he ordered me. He asked me if I wanted to risk my son’s life by interfering when I shouldn’t. I couldn’t . . . Dumbledore . . .”
“What was it?” Remus asked, gently, an encouraging hand on James’ shoulder.
“That the reason why you-know-who and Harry were so well matched, fated against each other, was for their similarities. They were both parseltongues, clever, ambitious people. Both prideful, stubborn . . . but most importantly, they were both orphans.”
Remus sucked in a sudden breath, realizing Dumbledore’s manipulation - the true implications of what James was saying - that he’d deprive a boy who was possibly destined to die of his father’s love because it would make him stronger.
“I was supposed to be dead and . . . even though I couldn’t do it for the Ascended, I could do it for Harry. Was I wrong?” James looked uncertain. “Did it help?”
Remus looked down at his hands, biting his lip. “I don’t know. Nobody knows how Harry succeeded. We’re just glad that he did.”
Part IIb
Author: Gaia
Rating: R
Pairings: McShep, Lupin/Tonks, Ron/Hermione
Genre: Xover with Harry Potter, drama, humor
Warnings: WIP
Betas: Much thanks to dossier and mecurtin for kicking some sense into me (even if it did result in sulking and procrastination) and to ellex42 for doing the final beta (I swear to god, I have no idea how she can be so creepily good at catching my silly mistakes).
Disclaimer: Don’t own SGA or HP and I’m beginning to think I really wouldn’t want to. Also, I make no money.
Spoilers: Conversion
A/N: Sorry this took so long to update. I had a conflict, which you can probably follow on my LJ. But there shall be no more conflict in future parts (for me, not the characters). I refuse to be Hamlet (aka the dramatic bitch) in this situation. Also, if you think Lupin is OOC here um . . . sorry, I hope I haven't caused you permanent emotional strife. Please find solace in the fact that it's a lot better than it was before.
Summary: In case you haven't been following, this is the SGA/Harry Potter xover in which John is James Potter. In this part, Rodney gets jealous, Remus gets curious, Draco is saved, and Ronon shoots things. Also, John explains a few things and Hermiod receives a gift.
Link to Part I
THE LAZARUS CURSE
And Other Reasons Why the Good Can Never Die Young
By Gaia
Link to Part I
PART II:
“I’m worried about him,” Hermione whispered, pointing down and out the window towards where Harry Potter sat, gazing out at the sparkling blue of the lake. He was tall and lanky now - thin and sickly looking even without taking into account the bulky white bandaging around his right arm.
“Who?” Ron asked distractedly, turning his attention back to the thick tome that lay before him. Who cared about the Bloody Mary Curse, anyhow? Ron certainly wasn’t dumb enough to try to summon ghosts. Getting glares and claims of being ‘insensitive’ from Nearly Headless Nick were enough for him, thank you very much.
“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, gearing up for one of her morally superior rants. “Ron, I can’t believe . . .”
“I know who, Hermione. I’m not a total git. Look, I just don’t know what you expect me to do about it. I’ve tried talking to him,” Ron indicated his left ear, which was still looking a bit wrinkled after taking a well placed Hickly-Pickly curse. “He’s Harry. He won’t tell us until he’s good and ready.”
“But we know about his injury. Ron, we have to find out more about the Dark Mark.”
Ron grimaced. It wasn’t like they hadn’t fought too. It wasn’t as though they didn’t have the right to be just as traumatized as Harry. Ron thought he could still hear Neville screaming, Professor Lupin as a wild animal, human blood dripping from a wolf’s wide smile, and Lucius Malfoy screaming and begging for mercy (it wasn’t the glorious moment he’d imagined). How much worse could Harry’s encounter with you-know-who have been? And it wasn’t as though he’d lost . . . well, then again, Harry barely had anyone left to lose.
“Hermione, that’s Harry’s business. Like I said, we should just wait. He’ll tell us when he’s ready.”
Hermione stood at that, reaching across the table to grab Ron by the jaw (which wasn’t half as sexy as it really should be), turning his head until he looked out the library window to the scene below. “Ronald Weasley. Harry is your best friend. Are you really going to wait until it’s too late?”
Ron gulped. He most definitely did not possess ‘the sight,’ but if it ever were possible for him to see the Grim, he’d imagine it would be circling Harry like a vulture at this very moment. “Well it beats Bloody Mary,” he offered weakly, closing his book.
Hermione narrowed her eyes, not entirely satisfied, but stood and stalked over to the Restricted Section of the library. Madame Pince looked up from her post, but even she knew better than stop the brightest witch of their age.
It was Hermione’s innocent and terrified face that he saw every time he closed his eyes, Bellatrix Lestrange’s body turned inside-out at her feet.
<<<>>>
If it hadn’t been for the crutches, Rodney would have taken John back to his quarters himself. Instead he had to settle for watching Ronon push the man along in a wheelchair, Teyla walking beside him and laughing animatedly to distract John from his constant designs on escape from the chair.
“Just like you, Sheppard, to make it all the way to the Gate before getting shot.”
“You and Dr. McKay did navigate the cave incredibly quickly,” Teyla remarked. “Even Ronon had trouble with those large boulders in the last section.”
“I did not,” Ronon grumbled.
“Well, Rodney and I managed just fine,” John said, voice low and calm like there hadn’t been any precipice at all, and certainly not any suspicious bouncing.
“Fine, if you consider . . .” Rodney began, only to have John forcefully interrupt.
“I do consider.”
Teyla looked at them, perplexed, but didn’t say anything. On one hand, Rodney hated it when she treated them the same way she did the arrow-wielding aliens, but on the other hand, it was good not to be questioned.
“I got down it quicker than you did,” Ronon said.
John was smirking. Rodney could tell by the sound of his voice. “I’m sure you did. Well, what do you know? It looks like we’re here. Thanks so much for the . . .” he gestured vaguely. “You know. I can walk from here.”
Teyla narrowed her eyes, but didn’t object. “I am glad you are feeling well, John. Heal quickly.”
John nodded. “I will.”
“Yeah, you need to get better so I can kick your ass at that ball game again.”
John levered himself to his feet, Teyla hovering close in case he fell. “Which one?” he grunted.
“All of them.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. When I’m fully recovered.” Which Rodney was betting would be whenever some fluke alien mojo suddenly disadvantaged tall freakishly-athletic ape-men. Either that or the next time John turned into a giant bug or some other animal. Hopefully something nice this time - maybe a rabbit or a deer. He snorted to himself. Sheppard would make a horrible Bambi.
Rodney hobbled over to the door, not really expecting any sort of sympathy “Well, I’ll be seeing you guys. Sheppard . . .” he tried snapping his fingers, but the crutches were sort of in the way. “I need to get . . . that thing I left in your quarters.”
“What’s that, McKay? Your virtue?” Ronon smirked over his shoulder on the way out, Teyla grinning half amused and half in sympathy.
John just sighed, resigned, making his way into the room and lowering himself carefully onto the bed. Rodney followed, nearly falling and killing himself tripping over a golf club. “How did you survive the military?” Rodney asked, surveying the mess. “You couldn’t bounce a beach-ball off those sheets, not to mention a coin,” he gestured to the tangled mess of covers.
“And whose fault is that?” John asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Oh . . .” He’d forgotten. They’d used John’s room last time.
“I figured we’d just mess them up again,” John said, spreading his legs until their thighs pressed together.
Rodney felt his mouth run dry. God, no matter how hot he was, John shouldn’t be able to still do this to him. They’d been sleeping together for too long. Rodney leaned forward almost automatically. His mouth was dry, but John’s looked invitingly wet . . . slick like those rocks had been back in the cave . . . “Hey! I’m on to you, Colonel. No trying to distract me with your . . . your manly wiles.”
John licked his lips, looking down at where Rodney was already half-hard. “It seems like you’re doing a pretty good job of distracting yourself.”
Rodney grabbed a nearby pillow and whacked John in the head with it, careful of his bandaged shoulder.
“Hey! That’s my line,” John protested, trying to lean around Rodney and grab the other pillow.
“No, your line is the one where you explain to me how in the hell we survived a 30 meter drop without so much as a scratch.”
John looked down at his hand, resting comfortably in a sling. “I don’t know, Rodney. It was dark. I couldn’t see the ground with my light and neither could you. It probably wasn’t as long a fall as we thought. And it was pretty slick at the bottom - the mud could act like mattress. I think we should . . .”
“I know how long it took for my flashlight to hit. It had to be at least . . .”
“Time slows when you think you’re going to die. Rodney, these things happen. I once saw a Marine just lose it and go running straight into a line of about twenty enemy soldiers without even a scratch. It’s either a fluke or it’s a miracle. You thank your lucky stars and then you move on. Unless you want to go back to the land of the arrow-wielding natives and their nice muddy cave and pull a Myth Busters, there isn’t anything we can do about it.”
“But . . .” maybe Rodney was wrong. Maybe it had just been fear and adrenaline and the whole interfering life-flashing-before-eyes thing, but, “I . . . Sheppard, I know there was a significant amount of panic involved on my part, but I think we bounced.”
“We could have. A slope or a series of plateaus could have broken the fall. It still hurt like hell.”
Rodney squinted. He’d have to work out the calculations later, but he supposed it could have been something like that. But then again . . . . “Why’d you lie to Ronon and Teyla then?”
“I figured it would be better if they didn’t ask for the details. Rodney, I don’t want to have to explain to them why I jumped off a cliff after you. That saying’s supposed to be cautionary.”
“Why did you? Jump off a cliff after me, I mean.”
“I . . .” John turned so that they were facing each other, reaching out a hand to cup Rodney’s cheek. “I meant it . . . what I said.” So, not a hallucination then. Rodney: 1, voices in his head: 5 (if you counted Cadman).
“You . . .”
“Yeah.” John leaned forward until his breath was tickling against the hairs of Rodney’s post-infirmary shadow. “You want this, right?”
A few minutes of crushing their lips together later, Rodney came up for air long enough to pant, “Of course I want this, you idiot. I’ve wanted this from the beginning.”
John looked pained. “I’m sorry,” he said, awkwardly.
Rodney shrugged. “Better late than never . . .”
The sex was a little awkward, trying to avoid both their injuries. They tried sixty-nining, but he couldn’t put pressure on his wrapped ankle, and when they tried laying on their sides, Rodney couldn’t seem to get inside John without using John’s shoulder as leverage. In the end, they ended up lying side-by-side just jerking each other off.
“Well, that was unsatisfying,” Rodney grumbled, despite the fact that he was at least somewhat sated.
John just slowly pushed himself up so that he leaned down over Rodney, lips swollen and just inches away. “We could always make out some more.”
Rodney grinned. He was tired and hurting, but he pulled John down towards him anyway. “Good plan.”
<<<>>>
When Rodney woke up, it was to a cold bed and an empty room. Again.
“Why am I not surprised?” he asked himself. When did Sheppard ever let anything be simple? He had to be all closed-off and stoically-tortured or he just wasn’t happy. “The man is perverse.”
Rodney stumbled out of bed, rubbing his eyes. “Coffee?” he asked tentatively. Maybe John’s room was more responsive that his.
Oh well. Maybe Carson had some of the good stuff brewing down in the infirmary. Rodney had no idea where the man got the stuff. Even when they’d been cut off from Earth, Carson seemed to have an infinite supply of Colombian ground.
Rodney sighed . . . coffee. He yanked his shirt off and fumbled blindly around for a clean one. Coffee first and sorting out intimacy-challenged Air Force officers second.
It wasn’t a long trip down to the lab, but Rodney spent the entire time thinking about John anyhow. With John it was always two steps forward and one step back. Rodney finally got the man into bed, then Chaya happened and he wouldn’t even hear Rodney’s professional opinion. He finally got Sheppard to admit he trusted him and then they almost ended their friendship over it. John finally admitted they’re in a relationship and then left Rodney without a word the next morning.
Rodney really didn’t appreciate this self-destructive streak, but then again, what did he expect from Sammy Suicide? It was like Sheppard wanted to die sacrificing himself.
And besides, how did he know this whole fiasco hadn’t been another one of John Sheppard’s patented deflections? Like a perfect magician, he’d have you so fixated on the charming smile and flirtatious banter that you’d miss the way he was fixing the cards behind his back.
Rodney huffed, blowing through the infirmary doors and spoiling for an argument. He’d go with a sneak attack - a stealthy grab for the coffee, a single draining sip, and a few choice insults to Carson’s line of work and all of the sheep-fornication in his lineage.
But before he made it even to the coffee maker, he heard voices, soft and hissing in agitated whispers.
“I’m not sure he bought it.” That was John talking.
Rodney slipped in closer, ducking behind a gurney and then moving over to the wall of Carson’s office. Well, sort of . . . he blamed it on the crutches. Luckily for him, the door was jammed open just a sliver - someone had dropped a pen in just the right place to keep it from shutting, even if the two ATA genes inside had thought the walls opaque.
“But you know Rodney - you wouldn’t be needing a sneakoscope to tell when the man’s lying to ya.” What the hell was a sneakoscope? It sounded interesting. Zelenka must’ve been hiding things from him again - that fuzzy little weasel.
“I know.”
“You’d better watch yourself, Colonel. I broke up with Laura when she got too close.” Ah, so the conspiracy was really afoot. John and Carson . . . too much hair gel must be a calling card.
“So I’m supposed to listen to a deserter lecture me about duty to my people?” Deserter? Carson couldn’t even hit the target, let alone the bulls-eye. Could he really have been in the army? Then again, men in Scotland did wear skirts.
John was really angry, voice raised far above what could possibly still count as whispering. “I’ve sacrificed more than you’d ever know for duty. Why can’t I just have this?”
Carson sighed, “Because Rodney McKay isn’t the kind of person you can love and still keep secrets from.”
Rodney gulped. What were they hiding? What was so big that John couldn’t tell him? They saved each others’ lives, trusted each other. Was there even anything about Rodney that John didn’t know?
“No, he’s not. But what good would it do? Everyone has a past. Why does mine have to be so special?”
“I don’t think everyone else’s pasts include . . .”
Include what? Rodney leaned forward anxiously, overbalancing and going careening into a supply cart, which knocked what seemed like the expedition’s entire supply of bedpans onto his head.
“Ow!” His ankle twinged as he landed hard on the floor. Serious, the infirmary was no place for injured people.
Carson was already at the door, his expression frozen somewhere between concern and disgust. John, on the other hand, seemed stuck on disgust.
“Are these clean?” Rodney asked at the same time John growled, “Spying on me now, McKay?”
“No . . . no . . . I was just . . . ah . . . I was inspecting . . . looking for a curved metal surface for an experiment . . . Doctor . . . er . . . Doctor Green was just . . .”
John crossed his arms over his chest. “Dr. Green is a marine biologist.”
“So?”
“So, you don’t talk to the marine biologists, Rodney,” Carson sighed, helping Rodney to his feet and handing him an icepack.
“Well, I wanted to ask about . . .”
Two accusatory glares settled on him.
“Oh, all right, fine! I just heard you say my name and I came over to investigate.” Not the whole truth, but close enough.
John squinted, scrutinizing him. “You were still going to spy.”
“I . . .” well, there wasn’t a lot that he could say to that. “Well . . . yeah, all right, I was planning to spy.”
John narrowed his eyes.
“I’m sorry?”
John nodded. “I’ll see you later, Carson,” he said, walking slowly out without looking back.
“Don’t forget your medication, Colonel! I know you don’t like pain meds, but they’ll reduce the swelling.”
While Carson was busy nagging, Rodney made a desperate grab for his crutches.
“Not so fast, laddie. I think I forgot a few shots on your last physical . . .” That tyrant.
“Vengeful isn’t a good look on you, Carson, though I’m sure the sheep quake with terror. And besides, why should I feel bad about spying on you when the two of you are busy hiding things from me?”
“Well,” Carson said, suddenly studying his stethoscope very intently, “did you ever consider the possibility that we’re hiding things for your own good?”
“What could you possibly hide from me that would make me better off? If I don’t know about something, then I can’t fix it.”
Carson shook his head. “Just you leave John alone. Lord knows the man’s had enough to deal with already.”
“But Carson . . .”
“You have to respect his wishes, Rodney. If you really care about him, that’s what you’ll do.”
Rodney hated it when Carson got like this - all sparkling blue eyes and naïve sincerity. It was Carson’s ‘I can save the world’ look and Rodney wanted nothing to do with it. But Carson did get a part of it right - John was a good man, but he was stubborn as a mule. If he pushed the issue, John’d just push back harder.
“Fine,” Rodney agreed, “I won’t ask him about it.”
That didn’t cover spying and subterfuge, however.
<<<>>>
Remus, suddenly aware of all the muggles surrounding him, made to pull out his wand for an easy obliviation, but James grabbed his hand to stop him. “No wand use. You can’t confound the security cameras.”
“The what?”
James just rolled his eyes. “So I wouldn’t exactly prefer my men catching their commander in a ‘manly embrace,’ but it’s okay. We’ll just say that I met you at school. You did an exchange at USC.”
“USC?”
“The muggle school I said I went to. American, you wouldn’t have heard of it. C’mon. Let’s find somewhere where we can catch up.”
Remus nodded. Merlin’s beard, it was just so good to see James. He realized he was grinning like he’d just been the victim of an overzealous cheering charm, but he couldn’t help it. It was James, the only other member of their little group left alive, Remus’ best friend, lost for so many years.
He’d been so busy grinning that he’d failed to notice this amazing building they seemed to be in up until now. From the view though the window it looked like a castle, full of towers and spires and vast only made of metal and glass and floating in the middle of the ocean. “This is amazing, James.”
James chuckled. “For the record, it’s John. And . . . yeah, it really is.”
“We’re floating?”
“Cool, isn’t it?” James grinned. It was a bright excited grin, even though there was a dullness to it that hadn’t been there even at the height of the war.
“I suppose,” Remus responded, speaking slowly - there was a wonder in James’ tone too - like there were things here that were even better than magic.
It wasn’t long before they reached what Remus assumed to be James’ quarters. The room wasn’t particularly large, but James had never needed much space. Or material objects, and it looked as though the same was true here. It was the same old James Potter.
Instead of a poster for the Chudley Cannons, he had some muggle vocalist. A bag of mallets instead of a broomstick was leaning haphazardly in the corner. No pictures (James had never had pictures - he was an only child and he’d never thought much of his parents), but there was a large stylized piece of unmoving artwork, though Remus didn’t see the point of a large board with ‘hang ten’ written on it. And the room was noticeably neater than James’ had always been. But . . . there it was, the one thing that James Potter would never be without - a small golden ball sitting placidly on his nightstand.
Remus walked over and picked it up, tossing it up and down in the air while it was still deactivated.
James chuckled. “If you release it, you’re going to have to catch it, Moony.”
Remus put it down immediately. He was a fine wizard and a fair duelist, but he’d never quite mastered any motions outside of ‘swish and flick.’
“Thought so,” James smirked, lowering himself carefully down onto the bed, wincing and bracing the restrained arm.
Remus pulled out his wand. “Want me to fix that for you?”
James shook his head. “No, thank you. Carson’s used a few spells on me when I’ve been particularly bad off, but I can’t heal too quickly - the muggles might get suspicious. And since when are you a mediwizard anyhow? Don’t think I don’t remember that time you tried to heal those scratches you gave Sirius and ended up turning his whole side purple.”
Remus laughed. Sirius had been so mad, James had to tackle him and hold him down to keep him from cursing anyone. “Well, he healed, didn’t he?”
“And he had to miss out on his big date in the Prefect’s bathroom.” James almost snorted with laughter.
“It’s a good thing he did! That Rita Skeeter woman he was so enamored with . . . she went on to write for the Daily Prophet - now there’s a sneaky little journalist if I ever saw one. You wouldn’t believe the stuff she was printing about Harry!”
Their laughter stopped dead in its tracks. James stood up, tensed and suddenly fierce, just like Remus remembered him during the war - that first battle when he himself hid and James singlehandedly captured three Death Eaters.
“It’s alright, James. I don’t know the exact details of what happened, but let’s just say that Harry has some very good friends to protect him.”
James’ eyebrows inched together with worry, his mouth going into that pouting pucker that had always made Remus crack and Lily laugh. “What kind of friends?”
Remus laughed. “Good ones. Hermione Granger, muggle born, smartest witch of her generation. And Ronald Weasley . . .”
“Ah, the Weasley clan. Last time I saw them, they had about five. Molly had a bun in the oven.”
“Yes, that’s the one - Ron. He’s not the most talented of the bunch, but he’s as good a friend to your son as you could hope. They remind me of you and Sirius, only, well . . . slightly less . . . haphazard in their mischief-making.”
James laughed, face going slack and child-like in the expression that seemed to work on everyone except Remus. “Hey, that was all Sirius.”
Remus surprised himself by actually snorting. “Yes, and I’m a Weird Sister. I seem to remember somebody concocting an elaborate scheme to steal all of Professor Dumbledore’s socks.”
“They were bright pink! I was saving the man from himself! And besides, it was Sirius that came up with the unraveling spell.”
Remus shook his head.
“Speaking of Sirius, do you think we should go get him out of storage? I heard from Lieutenant Novak that somebody had smuggled a dog.”
“It wasn’t Sirius.”
“Oh.” James seemed perplexed.
“It was me.”
“What?! Moony, you didn’t . . . you have no right to . . .”
Remus reached out and gripped James by his good shoulder. “It’s alright, I took a potion. I suppose it was after your time when it was discovered. I still turn into a wolf, but docile, in control of my actions.”
James nodded. Then he bit his lip, eyes wide in sudden realization. “Sirius?”
Remus hung his head. It had been more than two years but it still hurt like a wound - a pervasive ache that he wasn’t sure would ever heal. “Dead.”
James stood, pacing over to the strange piece of muggle art. “Goddamnit,” he whispered under his breath. “Fuck.” It sounded strange - strange American accent, strange American words. His shoulders were tensed, and his hand was shaking as he ran it through his hair, but there was no giant outburst, no fits of random magic and rage and blame like there’d been when they got word of the Longbottoms. James had torn their little camp apart, and only Lily’s voice, soft and commanding, had reeled him in.
Maybe he’d mellowed with age. Or, an even more frightening possibility - he was used to this kind of bad news.
“James,” Remus murmured, pretending that his friend didn’t flinch when he guided him back to the bed.
James’ eyes flashed, no longer hiding beneath the protective sheen of glasses. “Who else?”
Remus wrung his hands. He was used to being straightforward - firm but gentle with students. But there was always something about James, whether he was being rash and boastful or brave or angry or excited, you just wanted to protect him - as though if you tried hard enough, you could make reality bend to accommodate him just how he seemed to expect it to.
“Damnit, Moony! Who else?”
Remus gulped. He felt the bitter taste of self-disgust gather on the back of his tongue as he thought: start with the less important ones. Work your way up. “Peter’s dead.”
James sat silently, looking away. Back in the war he might have said that the man deserved it, but Remus doubted that James could’ve maintained his temper into adulthood.
“Well . . .” Remus took a deep breath and then continued. “Professor Flitwick, Arthur Weasley, Amelia Bones, Cornelius Fudge - he was Minister of Magic; Hagrid,” he’d almost started mentioning students - so many young ones gone before their time. But then again, James never even had the chance to know them. “Sirius’ cousin Bellatrix . . . the Malfoys, some more of the staff . . . I don’t think you ever knew Professor Sprout?, Mundungus - I know, not even cockroaches can live forever.”
That didn’t get even a chuckle.
“Wesley Prewett, Darren Dawlish - he’d become an Auror, you see; Julia Belby - Julia McKinnon, that was.”
James nodded, looking quiet, but expectant. Of course he’d know that Remus would save the worst for last. “Dumbledore.”
James sucked in a harsh surprised breath. “How?” he whispered.
Remus turned away. “It was war,” he finished, reaching out to pull James into a stiff hug. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” James whispered, relaxing into the loose embrace after a long minute.
Remus nodded, letting his arms drop to his sides, even though there was no way he could agree. There was a lot to be sorry for, James must know that better than anyone.
<<<>>>
Rodney looked at his watch. Okay, he’d given John 3 hours 47 minutes and approximately 12 seconds to get over his little . . . whatever it was - with John he could never tell. Now it was time to go find him and, well, capitalize on this new thing they had going on.
Rodney was a patient person - mostly. He could wait. He’d just have to sit around and endure all the kissing and the blowjobs and all the other benefits of finally being with John until he opened up and . . . who was he kidding? He’d probably blurt something out a few minutes into their next conversation.
Rodney shook his head, making his way towards John’s quarters. The man was supposed to be resting, but that was no guarantee that he’d be there. Rodney stepped up to John’s door and commanded himself with a deep breath, ‘Do not flip out on him. Do not flip out on him.’
And just as he though he had everything under control, the door to John’s room swished open to reveal . . . who the hell was this and what was he doing in John’s room? The guy wasn’t taller than either of them, but he looked longer somehow, even more thin and lanky than John. His hair was graying and a little wild, but not in that same artfully tossed way employed by certain Air Force Lieutenant Colonels who shall not be named. He wore one of the yellow-paneled tan expedition jackets that indicated the ‘squishy sciences’ and probably the most hideous shirt Rodney had ever seen (and he owned quite a few hideous shirts). Anthropologists - always trying to be more-cross-cultural-than-thou.
“Who is this?” Rodney asked, not particularly tactfully.
“I exchanged at USC,” the man replied in a thick British accent.
Rodney spared him the cursory glance he reserved especially for social scientists, before turning to John, who was still looking pale and maybe a little nervous. “What are you doing with an anthropologist in your quarters?”
“None of your business, Rodney,” John growled. Oh yeah, the man didn’t like to be bossed around - why was Rodney always forgetting that?
Rodney sighed, turning back to the mysterious man. “USC, eh? Did you meet John at a football game?” Because painting your face red and gold and sharing a name in common with a package of condoms would clearly be something Mr. All-American Flyboy would hire someone for.
“Football?” The man asked, looking quizzical.
John laughed and slung an arm the anthropologist (the man looked like he just climbed out of some ancient tome, clearly his profession). “Rodney, this is Remus Lupin, buddy of mine from back at school. Remus, this is Dr. Rodney McKay, Chief Science Officer, astrophysicist and professional pain in my ass.”
Rodney rolled his eyes. He hated being right. Pretty soon there’d be keggers and frat parties and more Doug Flutie than even when Ronon had joined the team and he and John had spent days in one of the old warship hangars throwing passes. Also . . . Pinloop? What the hell kind of name was that, even for a Brit? It sounded like a lewd sex act, or maybe a kind of prescription drug designed to propagate lewd sex acts.
“Nice to meet you, Doctor,” Pinloop said, straightening up and shaking Rodney’s hand. His grip was stronger than the man looked.
“Sure,” Rodney replied, earning him a glare from John. “Not that nepotism isn’t great and all, but what exactly are you doing here?”
Pinloop smiled. “I’ve been hired by Anthropology, for help with translation work.”
Rodney rolled his eyes. Hole in one. “Yes, yes, very exciting. John, I was just going to do . . . that thing . . . with the . . . widgets, in my quarters, if you want to . . .” he pointed over his shoulder.
John smiled at him placidly. “Another time, Rodney. I’m gonna give Remus the grand tour. Because I’m so useful around here,” he gestured to his injured arm.
“Oh,” Rodney sagged, disappointed and eying the anthropologist. He wasn’t much to look at and he certainly didn’t live up to his porn star name, but then again, Rodney wasn’t exactly in John’s league either. And the man and John clearly got along. According to Ronon (which wasn’t always the most reliable source, considering that he once thought Elizabeth offering him honorary American citizenship was a marriage proposal), John had once been married (though there was no official record of it). Maybe that was because gay marriage wouldn’t have been legal at the time.
Rodney gulped. “Well, then I’ll . . . I’ll come with you.”
John looked down at his feet, his little embarrassed look. “Actually, I was sort of hoping to get the chance to catch up. I haven’t seen Remus in nearly seventeen years.” He looked honestly apologetic, but also a little bit sneaky. What the hell was going on here?
“I . . .” Rodney was about to object when he noticed the look in John’s eyes, all of the previous look of paranoia melting away. John looked happy.
John clapped him on his shoulder. “I’ll be by later tonight. We’ll see what we can do about your widgets.” He winked, before grabbing hold of Pinloop’s arm and ambling off.
Rodney could barely make out Pinloop’s murmured comment, “I don’t think the doctor likes me.”
“Don’t worry,” John replied. “Rodney’s default is suspicion. He’ll warm up to you.” Sure, if warm meant Antarctica in the dead of winter.
<<<>>>
No sooner had Rodney swung off down the corridor, than James had turned them back around and into his quarters.
“I almost forgot,” James sighed, looking him over. “First thing’s first - we have to do something about those clothes. You’ve got your expedition uniform, which is good, but . . . where did you even get that shirt, Moony?”
“India. It’s a formal . . .”
“It looks like a muumuu. Look, just stick to plain black shirts and you’ll be fine.”
Remus shrugged. James looked good in everything; Remus didn’t know what the man wore his robes inside out at high society dinner parties would be worried about. “I wore one every day in the temple. They said my robes were too hot.”
James shook his head. “What were you doing in India?”
“I heard there was a cure there . . . for my . . . condition. Turns out I was wrong, though. The cure was more along the lines of giving myself food poisoning so even the wolf would be too sick to eat anyone.”
“Hey, if we’d know that, Sirius and I could’ve cured you long ago.”
Remus laughed. “No thanks. After that holiday I’m never letting you near a kitchen again, not even one of those muggle things with the square of dry noodles.
“So that’s where you went after the war? India?”
“For a while. It’s fascinating there. Some of the old texts take a completely different angle on spellmaking. It’s about the sounds of the words as much as their meaning. Most of it bordering on dark magic, but with a different flair. Ministry over there’s not to organized though - hundreds of wizards out on the streets doing healings and making ropes dance like snakes and all sorts of things and they deport me when after five years they get around to checking my paperwork and find out I’m a werewolf.”
James shrugged. “Go figure. Where’d you head to next?”
“Up to the border of Nepal - tried this meditation technique that kept the wolf at bay for a few cycles, but it wasn’t reliable,” he looked down at his hands. He could still hear those children screaming, calling out in a language unknown to him about a monster. He’d just been lucky that the wizard with him knew a good strong stunning charm. “I went through China, Romania. I met an Englishmen there - Arthur and Molly’s son, actually. He told me about the Wolfsbane potion and I headed back to England. Dumbledore offered me a job, you know. Teaching. I taught your son.”
“Yeah?” James asked, tentative and almost shy.
“Master of Defense Against the Dark Arts, that boy. You should’ve seen it, James. A Patronus in his third year.”
“A Patronus? Really?”
Remus nodded, careful not to mention the circumstances under which he’d taught Harry. “Oh, yes, and you’d never guess what form it took: a stag. Like father, like son, I assume.” Though James’ Patronus had been a falcon, sleek and shimmering as it dove down on dementors like they were prey.
“Really?” James looked caught somewhere between pride and shame, though the man had nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn’t as though he could help having been dead.
“And I haven’t seen anyone more natural on a broom since well . . . you. Not that I’m particularly knowledgeable about Quiditch,” and that was something that had always annoyed James and Sirius to no end, “but he was a fine Seeker. The boy could give you a run for your money. He even made the team first year. Youngest seeker in a century.”
James chuckled. “Remember how badly I wanted that title?”
Remus snorted. “I thought you were going to cry when your father forbade you try out. Instead you just broke all Sirius’ poor soldiers at wizard’s chess and made an involuntary snowstorm in the dormitory.”
“And, wow, was McGonagall mad.”
“But by the time you two graduated, she was used to it.”
“The two of us, Moony? I seem to remember a certain someone teaching the giant squid how to call people ‘wankers.’”
“That was only because you two wankers thought it would be fun to test your island-making spell by leaving me in the middle of the lake!”
“It was only for an hour and it saved you four hours detention with Filch. He made us clean one of the dungeons with muggle cleaning supplies.”
Remus laughed. He remembered the way the two of them smelled for days after that - like rain and sneezes. Or rather, he was always sneezing around them. “But you’re a muggle now. Certainly you have to do those things?”
James shook his head. “Nah. That’s why I like the military. Cleaning’s what Airmen are for. And in Atlantis the Ancient machines take care of things.” He shrugged.
“So you like it here?”
“Yeah,” James laughed. “I do.”
Remus never would’ve thought - James Potter, the man who’d shown up in Remus’ house through the Floo network, panicked because he had no idea how to help his wife’s sister out with the dishes, actually enjoying life among muggles.
He looked over at James . . . John. He looked relaxed, almost happy. Funny, considering that he was not only living among muggles, but in another galaxy where there were apparently creatures that ate people’s souls. Sure, the dementors did something similar, but there was always the Patronus spell . . . in the Wizarding world, the only thing you really had to fear was other wizards.
“So . . . Rodney,” Remus raised his eyebrows. “What exactly are widgets?”
James ran a hand furtively through his hair. “You know, I have no idea.”
“How long?” Remus asked quietly. He’d seen that special smile on James’ face - the one he’d only seen in relation to Lily.
James shrugged his good shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s nothing serious.”
Right here was where Sirius would’ve tackled him, forcing him down until he gave it up for the lie that it was. Remus just sighed, changing the subject. “What happened to your glasses?”
James grinned. “Muggle invention. They take this laser beam - kind of like a cutting curse - and shoot it at your eye. Moves the lens or something . . .”
“Lens?” Remus asked. As far as he knew, eyes were eyes. “You mean they put the glasses in your eye?” He supposed it could be done with some sort of transfiguration. Maybe an animagus like James could just transform his eye and nothing else.
“No, no, you have a lens in your eye already. That other thing is a contact. I know it sounds disgusting, but it’s how muggles get on without mediwitches. They work on the body and not the spirit.”
Interesting concept. Remus frowned. “Isn’t that what Carson was always working on back in school?”
James nodded. “He’s good at it too - muggle medicine, though without a few steadying charms, I doubt he’d be able practice both surgery and genetics.”
Remus had never heard either of those words before. He shrugged. Muggles had strange names for things - especially American ones. Like that game of theirs - the one they called football even though they rarely touched their feet to the ball.
“You two getting along now?” Remus asked, curious. James had never liked the young Ravenclaw, even back in their schooldays. James certainly had never been prejudiced against muggles - right now he was living proof that at least someone paid attention during muggle studies, and he’d married a muggle-born, fought in the Great War, and hated Slytherin and their blood-pride more than anyone. He just didn’t understand why Carson was so proud of being able to do things the muggle way. He was a wizard, after all - why did he need all that?
James shrugged. “He’s a deserter.”
“Some might say you are too,” Remus pointed out.
“I left under orders. He left because he was scared.”
“His mum called him back home. In those days it was safer to be a muggle in Scotland than a wizard in England. I don’t blame her.”
“Because he was a wizard! Fighting was the right thing to do, and you know it.”
Remus sighed. They’d had this argument before. He wasn’t eager to have it again.
“So, the real question, James. What happened to you? How did you manage to get yourself all the way out here?”
James shrugged. It was more subtle than it used to be, but it was the same macho thing from when they were kids - his ‘bludgers just bounce off me’ expression. It didn’t work on Remus. “By accident, mostly.”
“You don’t die and come back to life by accident. Not even Voldemort could manage that.”
James cringed. “You mean he-who-shall-not-be-named?”
Remus’ shrug was genuine. He’d forgotten that James hadn’t seen the age when his own son used the word like a weapon. “He’s dead. What does it matter?”
“So Harry . . .” James looked uncertain, wary, but almost painfully hopeful.
“He’s fine. Back at Hogwarts now, finishing up his seventh year.” Remus reached out, grabbing James’ arm, surprised at the muscle on the previously wiry frame. “You can see him now, James.”
“I . . .” James didn’t like to let it show, but Remus could see the moisture sparkling at the corners of his eyes. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I abandoned him, Moony! I left him all alone in a world of monsters, living with those awful muggle in-laws of mine, having to fight a war against the darkest wizard of our history without even the support of a parent. He’ll hate me.”
Remus sighed. He’d forgotten James’ dark and desperate moods - his natural optimism giving way to fatalism when looking back. “You’re his father.”
“He’s lived his whole life as an orphan.”
Remus wanted to shout or punch something or just grab James’ shoulders and shake until he understood. He too had given way to this sort of self-condemnation before - when what he was and what he’d done mattered more than the person he could be. He wouldn’t do it again. But then again, Remus always played the role of the reasonable one.
“Is that why you didn’t come back?” he asked, knowing full well that the James Potter he knew would never go quietly.
James shook his head. “I . . . there are laws. I was dead - I was stuck on another plane of existence, forced to just sit back and watch everything going on down below. I don’t remember much from my time there. When I came back, I didn’t even remember that. They found me naked in the middle of a cornfield in Kansas - punishment for interfering in human affairs.”
“What’d you do?”
“I don’t remember clearly, but I saw Harry and you-know-who in a graveyard and he was going to . . . I couldn’t let him.”
Remus gasped. He remembered Harry’s account of the encounter - how he and Voldemort’s wands had locked and how his parents came back to give him the time to escape.
“So it wasn’t really the spell then?”
James shook his head.
“Lily? Did she come back too?”
“No. Not all who die . . . her soul went into saving Harry.”
“If you were in Kansas, how’d you . . .”
“I met with Dumbledore. He had a theory. I don’t know if I should have listened or not, but . . . he ordered me. He asked me if I wanted to risk my son’s life by interfering when I shouldn’t. I couldn’t . . . Dumbledore . . .”
“What was it?” Remus asked, gently, an encouraging hand on James’ shoulder.
“That the reason why you-know-who and Harry were so well matched, fated against each other, was for their similarities. They were both parseltongues, clever, ambitious people. Both prideful, stubborn . . . but most importantly, they were both orphans.”
Remus sucked in a sudden breath, realizing Dumbledore’s manipulation - the true implications of what James was saying - that he’d deprive a boy who was possibly destined to die of his father’s love because it would make him stronger.
“I was supposed to be dead and . . . even though I couldn’t do it for the Ascended, I could do it for Harry. Was I wrong?” James looked uncertain. “Did it help?”
Remus looked down at his hands, biting his lip. “I don’t know. Nobody knows how Harry succeeded. We’re just glad that he did.”
Part IIb