I Wanted to Hate You

I wanted to hate you.

It should have been so simple, so easy. After all, I had every reason in the world to hate you, and then some.

Sure, you yourself hadn’t done anything to me, but you were the embodiment of that which had torn apart my heart and soul, leaving behind not a shell, exactly, but a partly crumbled cookie; fragments rubbed off by rough edges, the bulk of the confection still present, but with less sweetness, less joy, simply *less* than before.

It wasn’t your fault, I suppose. It wasn’t your fault that your mother was so beautiful, so smart, so fiery that any and all were drawn to her; any person with half a heart, yearning to get to know one who seemed to have enough heart and spirit for two; all straight males, who’s eyes were forced to gaze at her red locks and green eyes, such a contrasting yet beautiful sight, and inevitably fall.

It certainly wasn’t your fault that I wasn’t a straight male.

And it wasn’t your fault that my parents hated me, and told me so daily, until the painful mixture of verbal and, later, physical abuse drove me to believe that no one would, could love me.

It wasn’t your fault, I suppose, that James Potter had to come along and banish that thought from my mind. Not your fault that James, so rigid and steadfast in his anti-Dark principles, was able to overcome the prejudices of my last name and accept me, care for me, love me like no one else ever, like no one ever tried to do.

It’s not your fault that we bonded over mischief and moonlight, Bertie Bott’s and brilliance, the adoration of our peers and the admonishment of our professors. Not your fault that long, whispered conversations between enchanted mirrors and hours spent poring over advanced Transfiguration books brought us closer and closer.

It’s not your fault that we became friends, and brothers, and, eventually, something more.

That’s my fault, I suppose. And Peter’s too, of course. The little rat had gone and done something admirable, something I should have done: he took a spell for James and ended up in the Hospital Wing, with a bad concussion, a few broken bones, and, just round things off, some internal bleeding.

We were scared. No, wait, I was scared, Remus was shocked, but James...James was petrified.

I don’t suppose you know what it’s like to see a unicorn fall to the ground, to watch a lion stumble in its walk...to watch a mountain tremble. I didn’t either, I suppose, until that moment, and then I, too, was petrified.

But I was also weak, and not able to deal with my fear, no, my petrification alone. So I turned to James, and he turned to me, and for the moment, the mountains stood still.

It’s not your fault that those moments became more and more frequent until, quite suddenly, they began to occur less and less. It’s not your fault that the slight brushing of our hands, the secret smiles between classes, the shared sparkle in our eyes began to lessen. Not your fault that the same sparkle, the same smile, the same light touches began to appear between not James and I, but James and another.

It’s not your fault that James came to me one days, eyes wide and lost, voice and body and soul trembling as he confessed that there were now not one, but two loves in his life. No, it was that redhead’s fault, that secret desire of a larger number of Hogwarts males than she ever realized.

Not your fault that James was one of those males.

It was her fault, all the rest of it. She was to blame for those lonely nights by the fireplace, playing solitaire because my Exploding Snap partner was missing. She was the one who would drag him off to a broom closet to snog, instead of me dragging him down to the kitchens for a snack. She was the reason why, on that dark day when my Uncle Alphard, one of the few decent ones in the heaving cesspool that was the Noble House of Black, died, when I reached out to him, he gently told me that while he would always be my friend, my brother, my comforter when I needed it, it could not be as it was. I reached for him, and he, this time, did not reach back.

Hmm...I’d like to blame the explosion of the 7th year dorm’s windows after this announcement on Lily as well, but I guess I can’t.

I can try, though. I needn’t try, because I have enough reasons already to dislike her. She took him from me, during those last few months at Hogwarts, and she took him from me again, during the last few weeks of summer, when they wed. By that time, however, I’d come to see what James loved about her, and I begrudgingly opened my heart to her as well. I was, for the moment, genuinely happy for my friend, my brother, and my new sister-in-law.

But then you came along, and cemented their bond. Now it wasn’t only thin gold bands holding them together; it was strands of DNA and hair and eyes and flesh and heart and *life*. They’d created a life together, a life that would tie them together eternally and, simultaneously, tear him away from me. My good will toward Lily, the feelings of love and friendship and acceptance that had been ever-growing vanished in a haze of anger, resentment, jealousy, envy, self-pity, and, inevitably, hate.

I wanted to hate you. Had I not every reason to? James was my brother but you...you were to be his son. Even I, growing up amongst the epitome of a dysfunctional family, recognized that the bonds between a loving father and his son were strong, stronger even than those between 2 brothers, between a husband and a wife.

I wanted to hate you. I certainly hated Lily’s ever-expanding belly, James’s anecdotes about running to the market at 2:37 am for mint ice cream, Remus and Peter’s boyish grins and arms full of plush dogs, rats, wolves, and deer. I hated the bland colors of the hospital hall, the spotted floor marred even more by James’s incessant pacing, Peter’s gum wrappers as he chewed his gum nervously, the magazine pages that fell out of Remus’s trembling, excited hands. I hated the baby cry that pierced through the halls, the faded flower wall paper on the walls of the Lily’s room, and cold, metal tubing of her bed, the way that one side of the blinds hung a little lower than the other.

Hated everything, in fact, but the little life nestled inside her arms.

I thought at first I could make myself hate you because you looked like her, with your half-closed but still brilliant green eyes and rosy cheeks. Then I thought I could not hate you because you looked like him, with your messy ebony hair and infectious smile.

I realized, though, that it my feelings towards you wasn’t their fault, but yours.

And James’s too, I suppose. When he looked at me, tears of joy in his eyes, his voice thick with emotion, and asked me to be your godfather, when he placed you in my arms, I soon found out that I could not hate you, even if I tried.

For when I hesitantly, shakingly gathered you in my arms, you suddenly gripped my finger, and opened your eyes wide for the first time. And in those eyes I saw not mocking, or pity, or anger. I saw security, delight, and...and, yes, love.

That which had seemed so impossible when I was younger was now a reality, staring up at me through emerald eyes crowned with messy black hair. I was loved, I could be loved; James was not the only person who could touch my heart and offer his in return.

I wanted to hate you, I wanted to blame you, I wanted to make you feel as hurt and alone as I did, all those years ago.

And now all I want, dear Harry, is to protect you, to pamper you, and, yes, to love you.