Recollection

It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style.
Oscar Wilde, from A Picture of Dorian Gray

***

With his almost perfect recall, his mind's eye replayed his conversation with Dumbledore.

"The Order still has a great need of your abilities, Remus . . ."

He remembered the way that the man's eyes seemed to peer right through him, into the turbulent grief Lupin struggled to keep hidden.

He remembered that his thoughts drifted, focusing instead on his remorse, his regret at leaving Sirius alone for so long. He wished bitterly that Harry had thought to use the mirror that Sirius had given him, although he could find no blame for Harry in his heart. Harry was an innocent, as always, as innocent as the infant he had been, marked for death.

". . . but the Order is prepared to wait. Are you certain that you do not need . . . a few days?"

Lupin remembered saying that he was sure, although there were few things further from the truth. Dumbledore looked faintly displeased, but he told him that he could return to headquarters the next day, and receive his orders there.

At the thought of returning to the Black house - empty, now, without Sirius to haunt it - his stomach had rebelled. He'd excused himself as politely as possible, entirely conscious of the blue eyes on his back.

Swallowing down his loneliness, Remus Lupin now lifted his head, staring over the Hogwarts grounds.

He could smell the air; crisp, clean, and cold. The smell of night at Hogwarts - night where all but the grasping claws of his curse was weakened. Even Voldemort himself dared not step foot on these grounds. Perhaps it was the power of Dumbledore that kept hm at bay, or something deeper, more meaningful - centuries of school children and their parents, sanctifying the grounds with the belief that the lives of children are precious. Evil has no place here.

The wolf within remembered the grounds. It longed to be loosed upon them once again, reveling in the freedom that Lupin had denied it these many years. It didn't care that the pack wasn't there - werewolves, unlike true wolves, were perfectly content on their own. There were few, after all, who allowed a werewolf to become 'pack'.

But Sirius, James, and Peter had done so. Lupin remembered them with a pang, remembered the way that the wind brushed past him and through him, cradling him, when he ran with Padfoot. Prongs would be far ahead, larger and faster, and one of them would carry Peter. It was always Padfoot who ran at his side.

Lupin closed his eyes, resting his weight against the balcony post. He remembered the grin that lit up Sirius' face the first time that he transformed, the way he threw his head back and laughed, taking his transformation as proof that there was absolutely nothing he could not do - and he'd probably been right.

He remembered the shock on his face when -

Lupin wrenched his mind violently away from that memory, felt his hands begin to tremble.

He didn't want to remember that. He had a lifetime of happy memories. Surely he would be able to concentrate on those. Surely he wouldn't need to grieve for his friend again . . . fresh enough in his mind was his past grief, when Sirius was imprisoned in Azkaban . . .

Lupin had always had a good memory, even when he'd been very young. The moment of Sirius' death was etched into his mind, as surely and as deeply as words were often etched into stone.

He didn't want to remember. The memories could kill him with their weight, their chill and their cutting edge.

There were some things that you were supposed to forget; there were some griefs that were supposed to fade in time. The fallibility of the human memory was not some celestial mistake. It was deliberate. Time was supposed to erase certain scars, leaving them faded, lessened, in the vestiges of your subconscious.

But Lupin had a hard time forgetting anything. Whether it was something inherited or inflicted, from his parents or the bite of the wolf, he did not know. But he remembered, even when all of the others forgot.

And no matter how he tried to distract himself, his memories rose up, refusing to be denied. They demanded his attention and reluctantly he gave it to them - both the good memories and bad memories, both the clear and vague, but all tinged with the taint of grief.

~Sirius was watching James fly, a wide, amused grin on his face. Only twelve, he already had the grin that would break the hearts of a hundred girls, but he was still too young to care much about that - when James landed, he tackled him, both boys reveling in this newfound glory - flight! And even if Sirius was never quite so comfortable on a broom, he shared in James' heartfelt delight, as a good friend would.~

~Leaning back in his chair, balancing precariously on just two legs, Sirius watched James lean across the aisle to talk to red-headed Lily Evans, smirking. He laughed when someone walked by, almost tripping themselves on James' feet, but silenced himself at a glare from his friend. Mischief shone in his eyes as he began to throw things.~

~Brow furrowed in concentration, Sirius leaned over a thick book. It was strange to see him concentrating on something - but when he realized Remus was near, he shut the book quickly. A glimpse at the spine was all he caught -

A Wizards Guide to Advanced Transfiguration: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Metamorphmagi, Transmutation and Animagi.~

~Sirius, jumping, as James clapped him on the shoulder and took him by surprise, laughing with him a moment later about some prank pulled successfully . . .

Sirius as Padfoot, challenging him as only another canine could, daring him to go further and faster, all with the promise that he was safe from himself . . .

Sirius scowling at the wall when James and Lily left for their honeymoon, bored out of his mind . . .

And a flash of Sirius, pale and bleak, bitterly unhappy with his imprisonment in the Black house. Loneliness flashing in his eyes when he glanced up - ~

That was the first time Lupin ever saw Sirius lonely. Before, he was always surrounded by people, usually admiring ones at that - loneliness was something Sirius had not known how to do. But Lupin had known. And he had tried to help . . .

He opened his eyes and stared at the distant grass for a long time, regretting. Grieving.

A voice rang out to him from outside his room - Mad-Eye's. "Remus! Time to escort the Express!"

Duty called. Lupin left the view from the balcony, a lead weight in his heart.

***

Later, he stood to the side, watching Harry, Hermione and Ron say goodbye to each other. He couldn't hear them very well over the racket, but he recognized the smiles on their faces - fear, grief and a certain gladness that came when you were surrounded with friends . . .

Lupin forced himself to stop. There were more important things to do now than mourn.

Harry broke away, waving to the Weaselys as Molly ushered them towards the exit.. He said goodbye to Tonks, Mad-Eye, and the other members of the Order, quite awkward. It was less of a James moment and more of a Lily one, the way that his eyes avoided contact, and how his face showed very little feeling at all. One read Harry's emotions not in his face, but his body - the way he held his shoulders, fidgeted and stood.

Finishing a quick goodbye with Tonks, he lifted his trunk and started to walk towards his trolley with unmistakable relief. Lupin stepped forward, attracting the boy's gaze. A swift smile came and went. "Professor Lupin."

Lupin forced himself to smile. "Harry," he said. And because he couldn't think of anything else to say, he asked, "How are you doing?"

Harry opened his mouth to answer, paused and seemed to think a moment. When he finally did answer, it wasn't the false reply that he had given to the others. "I'm doing all right, I guess."

For someone who had lost so much, he was doing 'all right'. Hurt shone plainly in his eyes, starkly apparent no matter how much he might try.

Lupin cleared his throat, fighting off a rush of awkwardness. "I owe you an apology."

Harry blinked. "For what?"

"For . . ." Lupin struggled to bring his thoughts into order, but they insisted upon scattering themselves. "For not doing more. There were many things I could have done . . ." He thought of Sirius, bleakly unhappy and powerfully envious of his friend, and his heart ached. He might have fought a bit harder to allow Sirius more freedom. He might have tried to protect him better, kept himself closer to the Black home, to his friend. He might have protected Harry better. He might have . . .

Harry was watching him as if he could read his mind. He shrugged lightly. "I, er . . . forgive you, I guess, although I'm not exactly sure . . . what for."

Lupin smiled, letting it go. Harry didn't blame him - there was no need to trouble him by asking for his forgiveness. "If your relatives give you any trouble," he said, "trying to lock you in your room again, for instance, write to us. We'll talk to them for you."

Harry smiled faintly at the prospect. His eyes showed no gladness. "I'll do that."

Lupin nodded, which Harry took as a signal that the conversation was over. The boy readjusted his grip on his trunk and turned to go . . . but a moment later, he turned back.

He stared silently at his old professor in pensive silence, and then asked, in a rush, "Are you all right, Professor?"

Lupin, startled, felt his heart clench abruptly. The world seemed to tilt precariously, and he reined in his emotions with a stern hand.

"I'm fine," he said, a bit too shortly. Seeing the flush of embarrassment of Harry's face, he added, much more gently, "The Order is keeping me busy. I don't have much time to think about . . . things."

An unspoken sympathy flashed mutely in Harry's eyes as he searched Lupin's face. He couldn't say Sirius' name, either.

Harry turned his eyes to the side. "I'll see you, Professor."

Lupin nodded. "Have a good summer, Harry."

"You too."

Harry walked away, setting his trunk on the trolley where Hedwig's cage already sat. Lupin watched him as unobtrusively as possible, wishing silently that there was something he could do to make things better. But in a world full of tragedies, there was often very little that anyone could ever do. Some wounds never healed.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Lupin turned to leave. But Harry's voice rang out suddenly behind him. "Professor Lupin?"

Curious, Lupin turned back. Harry looked up from where he was arranging his trolley, dark fringe falling into his eyes. "Is it all right if I write to you over the summer - not just about the Dursley's but . . . you know, just write?"

For the first time in a long time, Lupin felt the warm glow of happiness deep in his belly. It took him by surprise, as few things did.

A rare grin flashed across his face. "Sure thing, Harry."

Harry returned his grin, hopping to his feet. With a wave, he pushed the trolley towards the exit, joining the impatient Dursleys.

Lupin smiled after him, fighting down a ridiculous urge to laugh. There was nothing funny, of course, but . . .

"Remus!" Tonks bellowed, deafening Mad-Eye. "C'mon! We're leaving!"

Lupin shook his head, smiling, and moved to join the others.