Remus Lupin stood rooted in place, watching as the boy disappeared into the sea of shoppers with the brown-haired girl at his side. He didn't know what to make of it. The lad had recognized him—spoken his name with certainty—but then bolted without a word of explanation.
It was odd. Strangers didn't usually know him by name, not unless they had read the wrong sort of newspaper article… and the boy was far too young for that.
He shook his head slowly, adjusting the strap of the satchel now heavy with books.
Since returning to Britain, his mind had been weighed down with far grimmer matters. He had come back the moment he heard the news—the news that had shattered what little remained of his heart.
Peter Pettigrew had been captured. The coward had been alive all these years, hiding, while Sirius Black had rotted in Azkaban for a crime he never committed.
And Sirius… was dead in prison.
Remus clenched his jaw. He had gone straight to the Ministry, demanding the right to collect whatever was left of his friend's possessions, to bury them properly, to give him some dignity in death.
They refused.
"No blood relation," they said.
As if friendship—brotherhood—meant nothing.
He had left the Ministry that day with rage boiling in his veins, and a hollow ache in his chest. Sirius had been abandoned by everyone. By the system, by justice, even by him—because he hadn't been there to fight for him when it mattered.
Now, in the middle of Diagon Alley, staring after the retreating figure of that boy, something in Remus's mind clicked into place.
It wasn't just the familiarity of the voice or the hair.
It was the smell.
Remus's sense of smell was sharper than any human's—a curse most days, but sometimes… a gift. Scents were like fingerprints to him, unique and unchanging.
And that boy—whoever he was—smelled like Sirius Black.
The faint, long-forgotten mix of parchment and leather, faint smoke, and the crisp wild air that clung to Sirius's coat after a ride on his motorbike.
Remus's grip on his satchel tightened.
"That's impossible," he muttered under his breath.
But the certainty in his gut said otherwise.
If there was even the smallest chance—he had to know.
Without another thought, Remus adjusted his coat and began moving, weaving through the crowd with the easy, quiet steps of a man used to hunting. His eyes locked on the bobbing hood of the boy, already turning into the busier end of the Alley.
He didn't care how long it took. He was going to find out who that boy was… and why he smelled like his dead best friend.
Remus kept his eyes locked on the boy as he slipped through the brick archway into the Leaky Cauldron. The girl was still with him, her voice carrying faintly over the crowd.
Remus followed, his pace unhurried but steady. Just before stepping into the pub, he murmured a charm under his breath. His plain, patched robes shimmered and shifted into the look of a worn brown coat and simple Muggle trousers. A dark hood rose over his head, shadowing his face. In a place like the Leaky Cauldron, anonymity was easy to maintain if one looked like they belonged everywhere and nowhere.
The boy moved to the front door, glancing over his shoulder once—too quick to catch Remus's gaze—and stepped into Muggle London. With a casual wave of his wand, Remus opened the door and slipped out after them, keeping to the edges of the pavement.
Then the boy raised his wand hand slightly.
With a loud BANG, the triple-decker purple bus materialized out of thin air. Its brakes squealed, and the conductor shouted something about fares. The boy and girl clambered aboard, and Remus followed, paying in exact change without a word.
He found a seat two rows behind them, sinking into the lurching armchair as the bus jerked forward with impossible speed. The girl's voice carried over the rattling windows.
"Why are we leaving so suddenly? You said we could stop for—"
"I have to talk to my mum about something important," the boy interrupted, his tone final.
Remus's eyes narrowed slightly under his hood. The protective tone, the sudden change in plans… and that scent.
Merlin help me… could he be Sirius's son?
It wasn't impossible. Before Azkaban, Sirius had been infamous for his charm and reckless romantic entanglements. The thought sent a pang through Remus—because if it was true, then Sirius had left behind far more than a tarnished name.
The bus rattled on, lurching violently at every stop, until the conductor announced "Ealing!" in a bored tone. The boy and girl disembarked, and Remus slid out the door behind them, quiet as a shadow.
They walked together down a narrow residential street, talking softly. At the corner, the girl hugged him goodbye.
From his vantage near a lamppost, Remus watched as the boy turned toward a modest home. A woman in her forties was in the garden, her hair catching the afternoon light. She looked up from the flowerbed and called something warmly to him.
The boy pushed back his hood.
Remus froze.
The breath caught in his throat, his chest constricting painfully. That hair—wild and untamed, black as night. Those bright emerald-green eyes, so achingly familiar. The glasses… James Potter's glasses.
"Harry," Remus whispered, the name torn from him before he could stop it.
But before he could step forward, before he could even call out again, the boy's form crackled with blinding white-blue light.
Without any sound, he vanished—gone in a spark of electricity that left only the faint smell of ozone behind.Remus stood motionless on the pavement, staring at the empty spot where the boy had been.
For a long moment, Remus stood in the quiet street, torn between marching up the garden path and knocking on the door or walking away entirely. The woman was still in the garden, humming faintly as she tended the flowers, unaware of the storm brewing in his mind.
Finally, with a heavy sigh, he turned on his heel and Disapparated.
If anyone had answers, it would be Albus Dumbledore.
When Remus arrived at the familiar office in Hogwarts, he found Dumbledore seated behind his desk, the afternoon light spilling through the high windows and glinting off the many strange instruments scattered around.
"Remus," Dumbledore said warmly, setting down a quill. "You've returned from your… travels."
"I have," Remus replied, voice tight. "And I've seen Harry."
Dumbledore's hand stilled over the parchment. "Have you?"
"Yes," Remus said, stepping forward. "And before you ask, it wasn't at Privet Drive. In fact, it wasn't anywhere near the Dursleys. I want to see him, Albus. I need to speak to him. He—" Remus hesitated, then pushed on, "—he looks like James. And you've been telling me for years he's living with his Muggle relatives. That doesn't add up."
Dumbledore folded his hands, his expression calm but unreadable. "Harry is indeed meant to be with his relatives, Remus. His safety depends on it."
"Safety?" Remus frowned. "That boy is unprotected in the muggle world. He was out in the open, in Diagon Alley of all places! And he knew my name, Albus—he recognized me before I even said a word."
Dumbledore sighed softly, as though the weight of many years pressed upon him. "I understand your concerns. But there are reasons Harry was placed with Petunia Dursley after James and Lily were killed. Two very important reasons."
"I'm listening," Remus said grimly.
"First," Dumbledore began, "had Harry remained in our world, he would have grown up as the Boy Who Lived—a living legend before he could even walk. That kind of fame, that kind of constant attention, has a way of twisting even the most steadfast hearts. He needed a childhood without the burden of celebrity, without the temptation of power before he understood its weight."
Remus's jaw tightened. "And the second reason?"
"The law is clear," Dumbledore said gently. "An orphan is to be placed with their closest blood relative. In Harry's case, through his connection to the Black family via his grandmother Dorea, that closest relative—by magical law—would be Narcissa Malfoy."
Remus stiffened, the implications hitting him instantly. "You mean to say—"
"Yes," Dumbledore said gravely. "The Boy Who Lived would have been raised in the home of a known Death Eater. That… would have been a catastrophe of the highest order."
Remus was silent for a moment, his hands curling into fists. "So you put him with Petunia to avoid that fate."
"I did," Dumbledore admitted. "It was not a perfect solution, but it was the safest. And with the blood wards Lily's sacrifice provided, no one could harm him there."
Remus's eyes narrowed. "Then explain why he isn't there now, Albus. Explain why he's running around London with a girl, why he's grown enough to vanish in a bolt of lightning right in front of me."
Dumbledore's gaze flickered, the faintest hint of unease breaking through the calm.
"That," the headmaster said slowly, "is something I will have to look into."
The afternoon sun hung low over Privet Drive, casting sharp shadows along the row of perfectly trimmed hedges and identical brick houses. Remus walked beside Dumbledore, his gaze scanning the neat suburban street with a predator's patience. It had been years since Dumbledore last stepped foot here, and the unchanging monotony of the neighborhood made it difficult to pick out number four from the rest.
"Every house is exactly the same," Remus muttered under his breath.
"Yes," Dumbledore replied quietly, eyes narrowing. "That was part of the reason I chose it—blending in is an art the Dursleys mastered without trying."
After several moments of counting and retracing steps, Dumbledore finally stopped in front of a familiar front garden—roses pruned to perfection, grass trimmed to a uniform height, a gleaming car parked in the drive. He rapped his knuckles against the white front door, his expression calm but unyielding.
It took longer than expected for the door to creak open. Petunia Dursley stood in the doorway, her sharp face twisted the moment she saw him.
"You!" she hissed, voice dripping venom. "I told you never to come back here! Haven't you done enough damage?"
"We're not here for pleasantries," Dumbledore said firmly, stepping forward without invitation. Remus followed, slipping inside before Petunia could slam the door.
"How dare you—" she began.
"Where is Harry?" Remus's voice was low, but it carried a weight that made Petunia falter.
"How should I know?" she snapped, folding her arms.
Dumbledore's blue eyes hardened. "Harry was placed under your care, Petunia. You were to keep him safe."
Petunia's lips thinned into a line. "He went with Lily," she said flatly.
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap. Remus frowned deeply. "Lily Potter is dead," he said coldly. "Try again."
But Petunia didn't flinch. "I know what I saw. She looked exactly like Lily. Came to the door three years ago, said she was taking him home. The boy went with her without a fuss. That was the last time I saw him."
Dumbledore's gaze bored into hers, his expression unreadable. Without a word, his eyes glazed slightly, and he stepped closer. Petunia stiffened but didn't move away.
Remus realized what was happening—Legilimency. Dumbledore's mind swept into hers, sifting through memories like flipping pages in a book. Images surfaced: the front door opening, a woman with Lily Potter's fiery red hair and kind green eyes standing on the doorstep. Harry's small figure rushing forward, smiling brightly as she knelt to embrace him. The woman speaking with quiet assurance, her voice soft but commanding. The two of them walking away together into the afternoon light, no hesitation, no struggle.
When Dumbledore withdrew, his face was grave. "She is telling the truth," he murmured. "Someone who looked exactly like Lily took Harry from this house three years ago."
Remus's hands clenched into fists. "Impersonation. Polyjuice, glamours, transfiguration—there are a dozen ways. Why didn't you tell anyone? Why didn't you report this to the Ministry?"
Petunia's mouth twisted in disdain. "Why would I? I was glad to be rid of him. He was a freak—just like his parents."
Remus took a step forward, fury flashing in his amber eyes, but Dumbledore raised a hand to stop him.
"This changes everything," Dumbledore said quietly. "If someone with such skill could impersonate Lily so perfectly, then this was no random act. They planned this. They knew who Harry was."
"And they've had him for three years," Remus said grimly. "Whoever they are."
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