The Never-Ending Diary of Remus Lupin aged 34 1/2

Chapter 5

Monday, April 18^th

Sirius,

Quidditch finals over, but I have new concerns. The Gryffindor NEWT group did written mock exams this evening, all giddy and boisterous about winning the Quidditch Cup even after a weekend of celebration. Had to keep moving between the desks to make sure they were doing their job. Then I thought I caught a whiff of Harry's scent off the team captain, and it was enough to make me pause at his desk and stare. Maybe it is a coincidence that he was doodling Snitches in the margins of his test paper and smelling so strongly of Harry. But would that kind of scent linger after one of those team group hugs? Why is it stronger on Oliver Wood than on the Weasley twins and the Chasers? I can only think of one explanation, and I don't like it at all.

Curse you, Sirius, you ought to be here. This is your job by rights, glaring at this burly Quidditch jock, demanding to know his intentions towards your godson, telling Harry he is much too young to be having an affair with an eighteen-year-old. It is your job to care for him, make sure he doesn't get in over his head.

You would probably shrug it off. "Pure-bloods start young," or whatever it was you said when the girls were horrified of Narcissa showing off her flashy engagement ring to all the Slytherin girls and pouting about having to sit her NEWTs when all she wanted was to marry her beloved Lucius. Lily slapped you for being such a chauvinist pig--or was that the time you opened the door for her? It gets hard to remember after all these years. I should have known by then that you had several other family values ingrained in you. Stabbing your less pure-blooded friends in the back, for one thing.

I'm furious with you, with Wood, with Harry, and there's not a single thing I can do about it.

Where have I been all year, hankering after days past, trying to keep the distance that would be appropriate for a teacher? Damn all this professorial neutrality, Harry doesn't need more teachers, he needs family. Is he seeking Oliver's affection because he feels neglected or is it just youthful curiosity? I can't talk to any one of them about my suspicions without revealing that I have an abnormally strong sense of smell one week a month, and then the cat will really be out of the bag. All in all I'm glad I won't be the one to give Wood a pass or a fail this year--I might give him a bad mark out of spite.

Thursday, April 21^st

Sirius,

This evening, after our last Patronus lesson, Harry asked rather hesitantly what you should tell a friend of yours who was seeing an older bloke. I never knew that people still used the "concerned friend" ploy, it's old as humanity itself and so transparent it is painful to see.

I let him go on for a while without telling him to pull the other one, and soon enough the "she" became an "I". Harry was hardly aware that he had let it slip, and begged me not to tell Minerva once he realised. Bless the lad, he was worried that Oliver would not be allowed to take his NEWTs if it comes out. I had to tell him that Oliver would get into a lot more trouble than not being allowed to do NEWTs if this went on, since Oliver was of age and he was not. All I wanted to do was to first grasp him by the neck and shake him like a misbehaving puppy and then pull him into a hug, and in the end I took him to my office for cocoa and biscuits and waited for him to become a bit more forthcoming.

Well. At least Oliver hasn't done anything inappropriate - at least Harry doesn't think he has. It isn't the first time in my life I wish I for a talent for Legilimency. He says they haven't tried more than kissing and holding hands (I never thought I would be happy that Hogwarts offers so little privacy), so no great harm has been done. I offered my opinion when Harry asked for it--that if Oliver truly cares, he will be able to wait until Harry turns sixteen--and otherwise kept quiet. Harry is not a child any more and truly hates to be told that he isn't old enough, but at the same time he looks slightly awkward when he talks about it, like this is something too big for him to handle.

I did tell him that it was quite normal for him to fancy his Quidditch captain--Quidditch and Oliver having made him someone to reckon with in his own right, given him recognition through his own efforts--but that if something felt uncomfortable, it probably wasn't a good idea. It seems he took my word for it, like I've been able to inspire at least some kind of trust. But this isn't my place--I'm encroaching on someone else's territory, stealing a piece of Harry's heart that was never mine to begin with. Still, somebody has to care about him. His relatives clearly don't.

Harry finally made his own decision, the correct one at that. I walked him back to Gryffindor Tower to avoid him getting into trouble with the security trolls. As soon as the full moon is safely behind us, I'll talk to Oliver. At the moment I don't have more energy for handling teenage romances.

Monday, May 2^nd

Sirius,

I caught Oliver after the NEWT group today, as soon as I could stand it after the change. He was rather suspicious about my motives at first--I'm young enough to remember what it felt like to have teachers prying, sticking their noses in things that weren't any of their business--and I had to explain about how I knew Harry's parents and I was concerned about the boy and so on. And I was lucky; he understood and respected my points. Don't know what I would have done if he hadn't. Applied the thumbscrews and threatened him and Harry with the wrath of McGonagall? A crude solution, but probably one that works where all other methods have been tried. Still I wonder if I did the right thing. I am keeping too many secrets as it is, I can't be their confidant as well and I'm certainly not the right person to grant Harry and Oliver permission to exchange owls during the summer.

I do think he really likes Harry, though. He's not stupid and if he applied himself to his NEWTs with the same energy as he plays Quidditch, he could have a brilliant career. And he is more mature than one would first have thought. James would have liked him. Perhaps Lily too.

Work still takes a lot of time, but I'm beginning to slowly recover. My students are mostly going to revise for exams next month, and I'm rather looking forward to leaving the Kelpie lessons to someone else. Ogilvie will be arriving tomorrow evening, and I had to arrange for a carriage for him since I won't have time to go and meet him myself. I had a third, quite understanding owl from him, saying that no, I hadn't actually answered that letter, but that was all right as he also found paperwork to be hell.

Friday, May 4^th

Sirius,

Fergus seems an agreeable bloke, though he has such a thick Scottish accent that I can barely understand him. He is Muggle-born, so he understood and laughed when I suggested we have him dubbed for the benefit of the students. Says he is going to stay over the weekend in order to go hiking in the mountains. On top of all that, he seems to be a natural at teaching as well, though the Slytherins can be difficult at times. I still felt bad about not being able to meet him yesterday, so I suggested earlier today that he come along to the Three Broomsticks after the staff meeting. He accepted.

Good Lord, I'm realising how much I've missed talking to someone who isn't either a student or a teacher. Fergus seems to be single, as he has no problems with staying over the weekend, and he laughed again when I said that I frankly didn't understand why some young witch hadn't nabbed him before now. He really has a nice laugh, something I have noticed that very few people have. Feels like too long since I laughed myself, Mr Ogilvie is a burst of fresh air in that aspect. It was raining when we left the Three Broomsticks at closing time, last of all, and when I heard that he too liked being out in the rain, I realised that he could be a kindred spirit as well.

Sunday, May 8^th

Sirius,

Fergus is indeed the kind of sound, wholesome bloke I thought was extinct. He has been staying over the weekend, explicitly in order to go hiking. Today he asked if I would accompany him, and I still don't know what made me accept. I managed to have a rather good time, in spite of wet and blistered feet (am soaking them in a footbath with Healing potions as I write). We saw a couple of eagles and deer and had an extraordinary luck with the weather. Sky was the deep, clear blue you only get in the spring, the air like mineral water, heather flowers blushing and small lochs glittering in the unexpected sun--stop this, Lupin, you are sounding like a schoolboy essay. It couldn't have been more romantically Scottish if Robert Burns had written the libretto and Felix Mendelssohn had written the score (Fergus asked who I was talking about. He can't be all perfection, I suppose.)

We found a Muggle village in one of the glens and stopped for Sunday lunch and a few pints at the pub. Strange how the Muggle world, which most wizards see as something dull and dreary and not worth attention, appears like a fairytale world at times. No preconceived notions to conform to, no prejudice against creatures like me. I realised on the way back to Hogwarts that I had seldom felt this happy, though that may have been the roast beef and the bitter talking.

Then Fergus began to whistle Loch Lomond. The idiot. As if I needed to be reminded that me and my true love will never meet again. I tried to stop him when I couldn't bear it any more by asking why he had dragged me along. If anything, the walk had made me realise that I'm sadly out of shape, and I knew he was holding back so I could keep up (I later calculated that I must have walked twenty-five miles that day). Fergus just laughed and said, "Oh, it was the Flying Mistress who gave me the idea. Said you spent far too much time on your own."

Definitely going to kill Rolanda. Matchmaking ought to be made a capital offence.

Wednesday, May 18^th

Sirius,

It's been a while since I wrote. It feels adulterous somehow, writing about a love interest in a diary named after a former lover. I can afford a new one now, but for some reason I've got used to this one. Two thirds of my life is recorded in it.

Fergus asked if he could help with the NEWT groups when I told him about them on Sunday--the Sunday before last, that is, after our hike. He invited me for a spot of scotch in his rooms once we came back and I thought to decline first. Then I suggested that he bring the scotch and come to my rooms instead, if he was man enough to survive the view of my bare feet and calves.

Seems he likes a challenge, as he arrived while I was soaking my feet. We had quite a nice time together, talking about literature (not a book person. Definitely not a book person.), famous monsters throughout history, fishing (I'm lucky Minerva's nephew took mercy on me and took me salmon-fishing--I caught one, though small, so I've kept my honour), music (he likes Johnny Cash and Van Morrison, which is a good start). Neither of us felt hungry enough to eat a full Hogwarts dinner on top of a filling lunch, so we asked the house-elves for a lighter meal.

While we were eating, we somehow got personal. Did it have anything to do with sitting squeezed together on the tiny couch Hogwarts had provided me with? The fact that he had that freshly-showered, soapy smell I have always found attractive? The way his eyes met mine longer than a straight man would have endured? His smile when he said that other people really didn't think it was as much of a hardship to spend a day in my company as I seemed to believe? Whatever the reason, we kissed, with food still on our plates. While I have made do with my own hand for the best part of a decade, there is no compensation for a good kiss. Gladly took Fergus's suggestion of letting go a bit. Kisses moved from good to excellent.

He did come to the NEWT groups, by the way, provided some help and stayed to clear up the classroom afterwards. Stayed in my rooms until late at night, and I must have done a shoddy job with marking homework and preparing lessons during his final two days. I walked him down to Hogsmeade Wednesday evening, exactly one week ago, and it felt like he took a piece of me with him when he Apparated away.

He has sent me an owl, and I don't know if I should answer--I've dithered about it for two days. Finally, my reason kicked in. He is a sweet, caring lad, but so much younger than I, in spirit if not in years (I can almost hear James's voice saying, "Moony, your spirit is older than Count Saint-Germain."). He isn't you, not by a long shot--doesn't share your passion for cracking intricate Daily Prophet crosswords or for shouting at literary characters. Does he share your non-prejudiced views of werewolves?

And all the same I had almost forgotten what it felt like to be a man, not just a genderless teacher or a colleague, what it felt like to have sexual feelings. I know I brood over things far too much, and Fergus might be the kind of person who could scatter my morose thoughts. But if a relationship has nothing more than that going for it, he would be better off with someone else. I would be using him to forget, and not using persons as means to an end is about the only moral rule I haven't broken. I should like to keep it that way.

Tuesday, May 23rd

Sirius,

Fergus came for a surprise visit yesterday, so close after the full moon that I panicked. The students are beginning to get used to the fact that one of their teachers is a bit sickly, but Fergus still has no clue. What kind of a callous blockhead am I, flirting with people who have no idea of what I am? I don't even have a clear memory of what I said, but I think I let him believe that the stress of preparing the examinations is getting to me again. Now I feel like a damn twit and a coward for not being able to tell him the truth from the beginning. Sorry, love, you have been snogging a werewolf. Not a thoughtful thing to say. There is a reason creatures like me shouldn't let go.

I don't think I would have managed to confess by myself if you, James and Peter hadn't confronted me about what I was, second year at Hogwarts. There's nothing much I can do about my tendency to withdraw, to wait for the clouds to disperse or lick my wounds waiting for them to stop hurting, rather than causing myself more pain by creating a conflict. Life has become something that happens to other people while I'm watching, and I can't bring myself to care.

At least I have a rather good idea about the kinds of exams I'm giving to the third-years, and planning them flows smoothly. At least it's nice that only my love life is in a shambles.

Friday, June 2^nd

Sirius,

Minerva has been asking what textbooks they should order for next year. Next year--I can't believe I've lasted this long. Well, with exception for breaking down around Easter and causing that terrible fuss. Maybe I will become the first werewolf that has managed to keep a proper job for a long-term period.

Fergus is back at Loch Ness. We parted "as friends", but it's unlikely that we'll ever get to share anything more than that. After all, we all know what "let's be just friends" means. Rolanda groaned loudly when she heard of it, having encouraged me to go for it for a month already, and swore she would never set me up with someone again, but I think it is for the best. Not that werewolves mate for life, but I don't think I will be able to give anyone else what I gave you. As for telling him what I am, I don't think I can take that risk.

Friday, June 10^th

Sirius,

Last day of the exams--finally, some rest. Finally I don't need to house Boggarts in my desk; not that it was a nuisance, but I need the space. I've even discovered a use for Pogrebins. Flitwick borrowed it for his practical exam, as an antidote against over-zealous application of Cheering Charms.

Things are still far from good. Buckbeak's appeal is due this afternoon, and I have a feeling that it's going to be very summary. Walden Macnair is here, after all, and keeps stroking his beloved axe in an ominous manner whenever he sees me. My record isn't completely clean, either, but that man is awful. It is one thing to work as an executioner, another to obviously enjoy it.

The fate of Buckbeak and Hagrid worries me, but the possible consequences are even worse. Harry, Ron and Hermione are bound to be sneaking out to visit them, without knowing that you might still be lurking somewhere on the grounds--I knew I should have confiscated the Invisibility Cloak as well. Harry has it for sure, even if I didn't see any evidence of it in Snape's office. I ought to go and stop them before they rush into something--no, I have a better idea. Where did I put the map?

Saturday, June 11^th

Dearest Sirius,

Do you remember when we were twelve years old, reading Arthur Conan Doyle together in my bed and trying to solve the mystery before Sherlock Holmes did? Do you remember how everything suddenly came together in the last few pages?

It's come together now, finally. And to think I used to be so proud of besting you at those mind games, pitting calm logic against your intuition, when I couldn't even deduce from the evidence twelve years ago that my lover was innocent. Some investigator I am.

It nearly broke my heart to see the wreck you'd become, after I'd run head over heels to the Shrieking Shack with my conscience screaming in my ears, to see the mannerisms of the man I used to love in this half-crazed, broken fugitive with deadened, haunted eyes. You didn't look that emaciated in the Daily Prophet pictures, Sirius, were they starving you in Azkaban as well? Why didn't I stand up for you? Any decent person would have Why didn't I send you food, chocolate and warm clothes for birthdays and Christmases instead of trying to forget that you existed--I should know what North Sea winters are like after three months of Quintaped studies. I am amazed that you still have lungs left.

And Peter, oh God. Small, earnest, enthusiastic Peter, the one who could never conceal his feelings--it feels I've dreamed all about him being a spy for Voldemort and being in hiding all these years. Yet I know that everything is true, that you are innocent, and that I hated you needlessly for twelve long years. I've spent the morning re-reading my diary and regretted every hateful, bitter word I have written about you.

Oh God. I hope you can forgive me for making that enormous cock-up out of yesterday evening. There's no way I can make up for missing that crucial last dose of Wolfsbane and making you lose your only chance to freedom. If I had only kept my mind, Peter wouldn't have managed to escape. That thought is going to be with me for a long time.

Tuesday, June 14^th

Dear Sirius,

Unemployed again. Strangely enough happier than I was when I started teaching at Hogwarts. The cottage badly needs a thorough renovation, but the old cliché holds true, there is no place like home. Dumbledore has insisted that I am entitled to a small pension after teaching for one year, so am a bit better off than before.

Ah, who am I cheating? Can't I just admit to myself that knowing about your innocence makes all the difference? I've already caught myself wool-gathering several times, thinking about how we could go about proving your innocence to the Ministry, but one step at a time. Helping you heal, getting you in some kind of shape, ought to be my first priority.

Snape was behind it, of course. He never could stand humiliation, even if it was only imagined humiliation, so he let it slip. I'm not likely to tell you in person--Dumbledore has managed to shame him into providing me with Wolfsbane hereafter, so from now on I'm well shot of the Ministry's full moon shelter. Don't you dare kill Snape, Sirius.

Harry told me the full story before I left Hogwarts--dear Merlin, what a narrow escape you had. I sorely hope I'm never going to endanger your soul in that way again. Hermione is just the kind of student who would have been given a Time-Turner, and there was some beautiful poetic justice in your escaping on an unfairly accused Hippogriff. Hearing that Peter had lived under my very nose for a whole year was quite a mouthful to have to swallow.

It felt good to get your letter, Padfoot. Even better to realise that I can still recognise your handwriting. Not that the Dementors would treat the prisoners like the former guards in the Tower of London--their methods are more sophisticated--but one wonders sometimes.

Things otherwise as usual. Preliminary reports suggest that most of my NEWT students have passed their exams with flying colours, Oliver as well. I have been grading end-of-year exams like a good teacher, given Brooks a hand with the apple orchard. Trying hard to behave like a freshly sacked werewolf with his tail between his legs, instead of falling around people's necks, crowing in exultation because my best friend and former lover is innocent.

Monday, June 20^th

Dearest Sirius,

Just back from the Glastonbury town library after trying to identify the outrageous bird that was tapping on my window yesterday evening. Where are you? Somewhere warm by the sea, I hope. There are hurricanes in the Caribbean, winter on the Southern hemisphere and the rain season is about to start in South-East Asia, and none of those climates ever suited you. Except perhaps hurricanes. I can imagine you laughing like a berserk in the midst of danger and destruction, your hair a frenzied wet banner in the storm, the devil-may-care gleam back in your eyes. Will I ever see you like that again?

I did a bit of shopping in Glastonbury as well--don't want the messenger to catch me unprepared the next time. Harry owled me, you see, after getting back to Surrey, and his letter gave me an idea. Admittedly, Oxfam clothes, basic toiletries, a pair of scissors, a razor and a pocket knife aren't the most glamorous of birthday presents, but I'm a bit rusty with the entire birthday business. At least there's chocolate there; a birthday in our dormitory never passed without chocolate. I bought all your old favourites as if I wanted to make up for twelve years--white chocolate with mocha mousse filling, dark with pistachio croquant or orange sorbet and marzipan, even the peppermint creams that I never understood the point of. Why do people want chocolate that makes you feel like you are brushing your teeth and eating chocolate in the same time?

I didn't know what to write on the card with the two puppies, either, but I hope it makes you laugh. I know it's your thirty-fifth, but it felt somehow rude to draw your attention to the fact that you have lost a third of your life to the Dementors. I finally settled for, "Happy Birthday, Padfoot."

Wednesday, July 13^th

Sirius, dear heart,

Dumbledore sent me the Portkey yesterday along with a week's supply of Wolfsbane potion. I've packed the few garments I have that might suit the climate wherever you are and am moving about the place like a restless spirit, feeling like I'm seventeen again and we are about to walk down to the Prefects' bathroom. There's still half an hour until the Portkey activates, and I'm too nervous to do anything but write.

I hope you're not too shocked when I say I'm indecently thrilled and more than a bit nervous at the thought of being with you again. Some of it stems from Harry's letter and the distinct note of worry in it. Suddenly the boy has a guardian who is likely to care a lot about his relationships, but I found that I had no answer to his questions, no idea about how you are going to react to the news. For heaven's sake, Padfoot, try to stay calm when I break the news, that's all I'm asking.

I'm glad you liked the chocolate and that Dumbledore has arranged a wand for you; it has to feel like being given back a part of your body. But I don't know if I should laugh or cry at your complaint that the chocolate bars are too large. Don't be silly, Padders, the size of chocolate bars has to be the only thing that hasn't changed over the years. Same size as they used to be when you were wolfing down chocolate like bread. But I see your point, though it breaks my heart. Chocolate, symbol of a life beyond the shores of Azkaban, once taken for granted, now broken into thumbnail-sized pieces, slowly savoured with trembling fingers, because you never know when it might end.

One final reason to be nervous. "Happy Birthday" wasn't the only thing I wrote on the card. I added: "Your Moony" and immediately regretted it after the bird had flown away. I shouldn't have assumed that you wanted me to be your Moony again. We'll have to see.

It came as a shock to me to realise that you no longer remember what it felt like to make love in the middle of the afternoon when only mad dogs and Englishmen stir in the streets, picnic on a beach, feed each other peaches and melons in the shadow of the cedars, have chocolate in small squares among ancient palaces and cathedrals. It frightens me--what more did they steal from you? --but all the same, it gives me determination and a sense of purpose. I will give you back what I can, and one day, things are going to be straightened out and your name will be cleared. We will be going back there, first thing we do, and remake those memories, beloved, I swear it.

Miss you. Love you. Can't wait to see you.

The Portkey activates in one minute.