Both Sides

Both Sides

Persia:

Sirius Black caught my attention the moment I stepped into the candlelit Great Hall in Hogwarts. I remember the triumphant smirk on his face as he took his place at the Gryffindor table, to the sound of his cousin, Bellatrix's derisive hiss. He flipped dark hair from his eyes and laughed scornfully in her direction. My gaze captured his stormy grey eyes for an instant. Defiance reflected defiance. Rebel called to rebel. I was not intimidated by his reputation as one of the legendary Blacks, the purest of pure-blood families. I was proud to be a Muggle-born, proud of the victory my position at Hogwarts represented. I had raged against my parents and their refusal to accept a witch as their daughter. I had worn down their protests, flouted their prejudice. I scoffed at anyone who dared belittle me as a Mudblood. I cared not for their scorn.

I didn't realise I was falling for Sirius Black. For his every joke, I had a funnier one. For every prank, I had one more dastardly. I matched his every cynical remark with one darker. It was a game. A game of cat and cat. Of wit and speed and daring, always trying to outdo each other, always challenging. Competing to be the most outrageous rebel. Daring the other to show the least trace of fear; dancing ever closer to danger.

We spent our detentions planning new exploits, new downfalls for our enemies. Being a rebel no longer meant living as an exile. The game of outcasts grew more desirable as the stakes rose higher. We proved our daring and our wit to one another time and time again, exalting in our dark charade.

It was midnight. The astronomy tower was shrouded in darkness, the full moon hidden behind a bank of clouds, as we cast an intricate distortion charm on each telescope in turn. The following night's Astronomy classes would identify doom and destruction heralded in the night sky. 'I predict an outbreak of dragon pox among Slytherin House,' I mused, affecting a misty prophetic voice.

High on the adrenalin that coursed though us, as we exacted our wildest devastation yet, we speculated gleefully on what would happen...when Filch found out what we'd done...if we were caught right there...if...Sirius couldn't think of another if. 'If we were caught... kissing,' I giggled triumphantly.

'You wouldn't dare,' Sirius challenged, his eyes laughing, daring me. Of course I dared. I snaked my arms around his neck, my eyes daring him back. Fire shot through my veins as we kissed...the thrill of the game.

It was all a game. The nights we sneaked out into the grounds, and lay for hours under a tree beside the lake, the stolen kisses in the common room beside the dying embers in the fireplace... We were unafraid, never hesitating to snatch vitality with both hands, staking our claim to new sensations, asserting that we belonged together as the boldest and the darkest. We dared each other to show the slightest sign of the clichés we loved to mock.

We were so caught up in our childish game that, even though I saw the need in his eyes, and he saw the devotion in mine, we never spoke the words that would have put an end to playing at playing a game. Never opened the door that would have allowed vulnerability to enter. It was a golden hour of love unspoken, played out through a game of daring, yet deeply felt, acknowledged by glance and touch, but never by words. A play in which we deceived ourselves and one another, convinced it was nothing more than a game, locked into the roles we had been cast: the joker and the cynic, the adventurer and the prankster.

Then a new game began. A secret game, because of a friend's secret. And it was a game I could not be part of, because of the friend's fear, and a trust that Sirius would not betray. I grew jealous. I wanted to play this new game too. I craved to be part of this new adventure, to be trusted with the darkest mystery of all. Sirius swore that he would tell me if it weren't for an oath he vowed to protect his friend. I refused to trust Sirius. I could not accept this bond with his friends that excluded me, his deeper loyalty to someone else.

On a rainy, moonlit night, the greatest adventure of all was unleashed on Hogwarts. I sensed this because the air tingled with an electric current of fear and excitement. This was the wildest transgression ever, and I was barred from taking part. Forbidden from the most dangerous baptism of fire. I raged at the injustice, staring furiously through the rain-streaked window at the cloaked figures streaming across the grounds. They were playing a game I did not understand, chasing a prize I could not see.

The rules of the game had changed without my consent, and suddenly there were no longer two pranksters, there was a team, striving for secrecy over the risk I craved. If I only knew the secret I could play this new game. I could prove myself. That knowledge would be my power - I could never be excluded, never lose my status as the most desirable prankster. And I could claim the rebel I wanted as my own, without ever having to play the cards of love and need and fear.

The moon slid from behind the stormy clouds, and in the moment when the grounds swam in silver light, I could see Sirius pacing a little way from that tree they called the Whomping Willow. Even through that misty distance I recognised the tension in every muscle of his form. Frustration overcame any shred of reason, and I ran through the rain, to confront him, to demand my part in the adventure. And he stood there, soaked, raindrops falling from his dark hair into his cold steel eyes, and said he would never tell me, that I had to trust him with one thing. That this secret was no game.

I played my own game of jealousy and betrayal. I saw the conflict in Sirius's eyes, the pain and anger as I rejected his plea to believe in him. It was my turn to play. I rolled my dice - guilt and anger - and walked away, into the cold November rain. I dared him to call me back, and he dared me to turn around, but the game was over.

Sirius:

Persia was not like any other girl at Hogwarts. She was as full of pranks as James or Remus or Peter. Persia never wanted to talk about romance or feelings like other girls I'd heard of. She was as reckless and daring as any boy, only she had a slender figure and silky dark hair and liquid black eyes that mesmerised me with a gleam of wickedness. Her sense of humour was dark and cynical, her wit compellingly black. She didn't care about being a forbidden 'Mudblood'; she revelled in being an outsider, in refusing to conform. My mother would have hated her.

While James and Remus challenged me to defy my parents, to protest their beloved values, Persia wanted to rebel against anything and everything. She didn't care about wizarding pride and dark magic and whether those things were right or wrong. Persia made me think of my heritage not as a burden, a shadow of hatred brooding over my friendships, but just one more target in the world for our defiance. I laughed because she hated clichés, and yet she claimed that a rebel without a cause was a fine thing to be. It was a seductively simple thing to be anyway.

If I was going to be a rebel, naturally I was not going to be outdone. Our pranks grew more and more dastardly, until Remus tried to reason with me, and even James struggled with a flicker of caution he could not quite bring himself to admit. But that careless danger was intoxicating. These were thrilling games with no consequences beyond the minor inconvenience of detentions, and those mocking dark eyes were far more captivating than any serious look or angry glare.

So Persia and I conspired and plotted and competed to enact our wild schemes, sometimes to the disapproval and sometimes to the amusement of my friends, and sometimes without their knowledge. And sometimes we kissed, and sometimes I held her and stroked her black satin hair. And that was part of the adventure, part of snatching life with both hands and never talking about ideas like true love and promises. If I thought about it, I didn't know a word to describe how I felt about her. Fascinated, maybe. But I liked the simplicity of not having to put feelings into words, and the mystery of not being able to anyway. Emotional conversations were like History of Magic lessons compared to the exhilaration of a prank executed like an annihilating move in a game of Wizards' Chess.

Then History of Magic lessons turned to Dark Creatures...and James and I registered the horror in each others' eyes as the pieces moved into place with devastating precision. Remus was a werewolf. That realisation was the beginning of a new and deadly game. Remus fought us with flat denial until we forced him to concede the truth. Secrecy was his only advantage in this game that was not a game. He looked me directly in the eyes and said, 'Sirius, swear you won't tell a single person.' That glance held a lifetime of fear and betrayal. I didn't have to think for an instant. I swore, and I would have sworn it in my own blood if I had to.

The pieces of this new game were laid out like a battlefield, and James, Peter and I, were consumed by the pursuit of an almost unattainable weapon - the Animagus transformation. We pored over Transfiguration books, compelled by the possibility of adventures beyond our wildest escapades...and the possibility of not having to see the sick fear in Remus's eyes as the moon waxed.

I thought Persia would understand, I thought she would trust me when I said that I would never break a word to a friend. But she thought I was playing another game...another trivial prank. When I looked into her inky eyes glinting with tears...no, not tears, Persia never cried...I wished for a moment that she could be part of the adventure. And then I remembered the fear in Remus's eyes; eyes that had seen rejection and abhorrence so many times, and I knew I'd rather die than betray his trust. We duelled with the sharp words of the witty game we knew so well, and I won the round with a snide retort about clinginess. Persia tossed her hair and flashed me a toxic smile. Still playing.

Rain lashed the window and heavy clouds hung oppressively in the sky, blotting out the full moon, and shifting with the howling wind. Darkness had fallen earlier than usual and tension hung thickly in the dormitory. We sat on our beds, not looking at Remus and not looking out of the window. Where was the nurse? I could see him from the corner of my eye, staring fixedly at a half-written roll of parchment, quill poised over it, clasped in a slightly trembling hand. His face was paler than death, and a film of sweat clung sickly to his temples. My stomach lurched just thinking about that nauseating anticipation. I gazed, unseeing, at my Transfiguration book. Staring was against the rules. A whispered moan escaped Remus's clenched lips, and James twitched in response. Sympathy was against the rules too, but we had never seen him this close before. Where the hell?

Peter stumbled into the room. 'I can't...find her,' he gasped for breath. 'A girl in the hospital wing said something about her mother...an owl...'

'Merlin!' James sprang into action, pulling his invisibility cloak from his trunk. 'She's not coming, there's no more time...' Remus was shaking violently, his eyes slightly glazed. James flung the cloak over him and we pelted down the stairs, through the halls and out into the grounds, and stumbled through the driving rain, feet sliding on the sodden grass, half dragging Remus towards the willow in desperate haste. I thought we would never make it through the tunnel. That narrow, rough passageway seemed to go on forever, as we staggered forward with Remus slumped over James' and my shoulders. We reached the entrance to the Shrieking Shack almost too late. Seconds after we bolted the heavy doors behind Remus, a howl of anguish echoed through the musty stillness. The wolf's tearing snarls chased us back down the tunnel as it battled the human lost inside it.

James and Peter took the cloak and rushed back to the castle to see if the nurse had returned, while I kept watch at a safe distance from the Whomping Willow. Even in the obliterating silence of the pouring rain, I couldn't get those screams of agony out of my head. They were louder than Persia's angry accusations as she stood crying in the rain. 'Trust me, Persia. This isn't a game.' I watched her walk away, and all I could think of was the terror in Remus's eyes, and that howl of pain.

I paced around the willow in the rain until the moon set. As dawn lightened the grey sky the nurse returned and tsk-tsked about catching my death of cold. I waited while she led Remus out of the tunnel - his pale face gashed with the wolf's mutilations - and while she dressed his wounds with witch hazel as he lay in the hospital bed. 'Just for a minute, then,' she twitched the curtains impatiently. I bit back a gasp of shock at Remus's lacerated face. It seemed almost impossible that he was still alive. I knelt beside the bed and took his hand, just to feel its warmth. I was so tired...

I woke up to warm sunlight filtering through my eyelids and blinked in confusion. I must have fallen asleep, my head against Remus's chest, still holding his hand in mine.