Waking Dream

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Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden where the flowers are dead. – Oscar Wilde

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Waking Dream

I wake in the morning, every morning, to the coldness in the air. With my eyes half-lidded I can almost see him, then I realize that he’s not there at all. He won't be there ever again. The spot where he slept, the left of me, always, is cold. He would hold me in his arms as we slept. I’d only had him back for a short time, but I got so used to waking in his arms again. Even when he was in Azkaban, I would miss them. When he was there, though, I knew that he was still alive. I knew that he wasn’t too far away… Now he is, though. I can't ever wake in his arms again. One can survive everything, now days, except death.

We never were the ideal couple. We love each other, would do anything and everything for each other, but in the end ‘anything’ amounts to nothing and ‘everything’ just isn’t enough. He was torn from me twice, whose cruel idea of a joke was that? We might not have been an ideal couple, but we never asked for a lot from life. We wanted to be together. In each other we found everything we ever needed. If I were a sappy schoolgirl, I’d say that he’s my soul mate. He’s not my soul mate, but so much more. He was my lover, my mate and my best friend. Siri’s always been everything that I’m not, that I could never be. Yet he chose to love me, and that’s all that matters in the end. It was said that to live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all. I lived. Sirius was my reason for living, he was my life, my existence. When he died, I died.

In the beginning I felt like I was helping with the Order. Dumbledore had asked me to rejoin and I felt safe knowing that the Order of the Phoenix was going to come back. Granted, the Order meant that Voldemort was a threat again, but I’d trust the Order more than the Ministry any day. Sirius was joining, too. The places that James and Lily had taken were filled, as was Peter’s… If only we knew he was a Death Eater then!! Essentially we are the same, though. A bunch of wizards (and witches) who’d lost faith in the Ministry and what it stands for and, because of that, we decided to take matters into our own hands. Dumbledore had me do plenty, a lot of it was research based, and there were some excursions. By day I worked for the Order and by night I kept Siri company in his family’s old house.

I’m no use to them any more. I haven’t lost the ability do help, it’s more that I’ve lost the willpower. I do bits here and there, but I’ve distanced myself from them. If they want me, they have to come and find me… and then deal with me. I’ve not exactly been the kindest person to commune with of late. I don’t like what I’ve become, but I can't return. I feel that I’m letting Sirius down, though. He would have wanted me to stay in the Order, actively, until everything was settled. That’s one of two reasons I haven’t left London yet. The second is, that in leaving London, I’d return to a place untouched by civilization. Once there, I’d lack all strength to live. James and Lily and Siri would hate me if I joined them before Harry was seen to.

I’ve generally been good at hiding my emotions, someone like me has to be. First it was required that I hide not only what I felt but also what I was. Even being around people that always let their emotions show, I never could. It’s probably the best that no one knows quite what I’m feeling, well, no one living. This mask I’ve created seems to be my way out from reality. Within it I can be the kind-hearted Professor Lupin. I hide so much from everyone. The past few months have been harder than the previous fourteen years, though, and those were pretty trying. I put my mask on for everyone as I seal away everything. When he was taken from me the first time, the looks of pity I got were enough to drive me back to France, now they’re only worse. I think even Severus feels sorry for me. I haven’t acknowledged any of them, rather I pretend that all’s well. And all is well as long as I don’t look directly into anybody’s eyes. The eyes are the window to the soul, and I don’t want to read into their souls, I don’t want them to see the pain that is hidden in mine.

Tonks visits me at least once a week. My flat is on the way to her girlfriend’s place, well, that’s her excuse anyway. I don’t think she knows that I know her girlfriend’s pretty much moved in with her. I humour her anyway, and she updates me on what I’m missing. She slapped me once, right after telling me that I was being a right prat. She told me that I couldn’t mope about forever. Watch me. She’s been the only one that’s really stood up to me, I haven’t sensed any pity from her.

Yesterday she brought a letter to me. I wondered briefly why it wasn’t sent via owl post, but didn’t bother asking as Tonks had said that she had no idea what it was. I put it aside until she left, wanting to read whatever it had to say alone. I hate mystery letters, every one that I’ve ever gotten has given me bad news in some form.

This one had my name scrawled across the folded sheet in the distinctive handwriting of one Albus Dumbledore.

Use your senses, don’t lose hold of yourself now. It is not the end; of anything. Stay strong for those who need you.

That was it. There were no names, no addresses and no explanations. Not like I expected any. Dumbledore has always had his own way of doing things. Kind of like how he always knows what’s going on.

I read and reread it. I knew, somehow, that he wasn’t talking about Harry. I put my mask on for him and he knows nothing of my relationship with his godfather nor of the pain and suffering I’ve been going through. Who else is there for me to remain strong for?

“Merlin! What does he know?” the flat’s empty, so my question is directed at the air about me. Or, maybe, to Siri’s spirit. He’s not a ghost, but I feel his presence every so often. If he has any control over it, he’s with Harry. That’s just how things are, I’ve come to accept that – albeit unwillingly. The letter, if it can be called that, has been sitting on my table since I opened it, and I’ve been gazing at it for a good couple hours now. My tea’s been cold for a long while after I cast the last heating spell upon it.

It’s dark out, and I think it’s Wednesday, but I’ve lost all track and concept of time. I hate time, it always seems to be mocking me. Time is what makes the ten or so years that I had Sirius seem like nothing compared to the rest of my life. I’m in my thirties, over two thirds of my life have been filled with memories that I wish to forget, scars that I wish would die. Why is it that, when things are going well, time takes pleasure in making itself shorter but, when all takes a turn for the worst, it then makes itself as long and painful as possible? It’s just another mystery of life, I guess. Only, I want this mystery solved. I want all that time, all those lost years and unmade memories… I want them all.

I gave into my temptations, I yielded to them… I thought everything would be perfect, fluffy and happy… Why was I so very wrong?

There aren’t any lights on, even though all I have to do is flick a switch in my Muggle flat, but my wolfish eyes have no problems attuning to the darkness. My hair’s overgrown now, not as long as Siri’s used to be, but long enough. It’s too much effort to cut it. When I push some away from my face to better look at the short message, I find my cheeks wet. Has one day gone by where I haven’t cried for him? One would think that, after all these years, I’d have no tears left to cry for him. Guess not. They come without my knowing or my consent. Often they accompany the dreams of him that all but haunt my waking moments.

I think I’m finally going insane.

I’m hearing things, the door opening, for one. No one enters without ringing the bell, and no one visits after dark. And I’m seeing things, too, the shift of a dark figure in my dark flat. I’m smelling things, a musty scent of… is that a forest? Outside. Whatever it is, it’s fresh. I like it. I’m feeling things, too, the air shifting around me… hands on my face… lips against mine. I can taste him… Merlin!, don’t let this be a dream! The lips are gone, now, and a padded thumb gently wipes away a stray tear. His voice is like music, singing in a melody that’d just been rediscovered;

“Miss me?”

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