Zevon's Song

Era: 2^nd year Marauders, PPP (pre-Peter-Pettigrew)

***

Zevon's Song

***

I was surprised to even *find* one in the house.

I guess, as in so many cases (both magical and non), it was one of those things you discover only when you're not looking for it. I hadn't been in the attic of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, searching for outdated muggle electronics. In fact, I hadn't been searching for anything. Members of the Order do not take date-specific vacations, but periodic lapses in action sometimes allow for impromptu rest days. Circumstances also play a role. In my case, vacations are usually monthly.

That night, the moon was a slice rounder than gibbous. I had wandered up to the attic on pretense of investigating a tinny, rhythmic squeaking that had been plaguing the second floor for two days. As a transitory member of the genus lupus, I argued that my heightened sense of hearing might prove useful in locating the squeak. Nobody bought it, but they let me go anyway.

I jogged upstairs as quickly as was polite. Two weeks, now, this had been going on. Ever since that black day when I had tearfully reassumed the title of last Marauder, the hushed conversations, the sad-eyed glances, and the suffocating kindness had been incessant. They pitied me. I couldn't read it in their faces--as spies, most were expert at concealing emotions--but I could sense it, smell the tension. Turning from the room, I felt as if a terse network of wire filaments had snapped from around my joints. Pity is a binding, persistent emotion, and in some ways worse than prejudice. It's easy to vilify prejudiced people. Sympathizers, on the other hand, often number among your friends.

The attic was predictably dark and dismal. Kreacher's claim to have occupied it over Christmas was false, I recalled painfully. I doubt he had ever even touched the place. A mat of thick dust rounded furniture, boxes, and all other objects into druidic mounds. The air smelled stale and flat, too thin to carry sound. No portraits hung from the walls. At least they would have given the place a pretense of life.

I shuffled slowly to the rear of the attic, my feet scraping a path through the dust, like snow. A tired, thickly-glassed window was jammed deep into the wood of the far wall. Already tired by my walk (it was that time of month, an excuse only werewolves and women can make), I slid down next to it.

A homogenous clutter of large boxes rose on either side of me. Carelessly I examined them--moldy, wooden for the most part, bespeaking their age. As my eyes fell heavily from lid to rotted lid, they snagged on an unexpected glimmer. I craned my head. Shoved in the dark gap between the wood boxes and the wall, a smaller box shone dully beneath its enshrouding cobwebs.

Like two curious seagulls, my hands fumbled automatically for the shine. What they extracted, with a small avalanche of dust, was a foot-square box, about three inches high. Its gloss came not from any gilt, but from the material itself: a foggy, scratched plastic. My eyes widened. They continued to grow as I carefully righted the object, rubbed it free of its linty mantle, and set it before me.

It was a turntable.

**

1977

"What do you *mean* you can't come to the concert? You're bonkers, Remus, it's Pink Floyd. They're the best!"

James was squiggling in his seat, a handful of faded blue tickets cradled reverently in his lap. At his feet, on the floor, Sirius was examining the back of a weatherworn LP. The front of the record was flat black, surrounding a single silver prism from which two sharp spears of light, one white, one rainbow, lanced. He held it with the same reverence as James held the tickets.

A few feet away, a younger, sadder, paler Remus shook his head.

"I'm sorry, James. I think I feel a cold coming on. I guess I'll have to miss this one."

Twelve-year-old James scowled, unforgiving.

"I don't care if you're puking your guts out, Remus---my mum gave me four tickets, and it's Pink Floyd, and everyone else has agreed to go already. You *have* to come!"

From his feet, Sirius chimed in, "Yeah! You can't just miss a concert with the best Muggle band there is!" He was wearing that serpentine grin which indicated he was about to do something his family highly disapproved of. "Come on, even I'm going, I told my mum I was going on a kneazle-hunting expedition with the Hogwarts Game Guild---"

"---which doesn't exist---" James added, grinning.

"---and it wouldn't be the same without you. Pleeease?" Sirius lobbed one of his petulant, puppy-eyed looks up at Remus. His eyes were large, shining, and dark, like twin eclipses, equally handy for extracting himself from trouble and (even at this age) attracting girls.

But Remus only blushed, smearing a fever-pink across his already-peaky countenance. He bowed his head, and tried not to let his eyes slip to where Sirius held the "Dark Side of the Moon" LP as if it were made of glass.

"I'm sorry," he said simply. "I just can't."

**

I keep up with the Muggle world. I always have, seeing as I am both Muggle-born and werewolf. This combination often gives me a double-incentive to maintain a careful distance from wizards. Pure-bloods dislike me because of my heritage; muggle-borns and half-bloods dislike me because of my lycanthropy. For survival purposes, and often sanity ones, I choose to live pressed closed to the border between the magical and the unmagical world.

Thus I was not surprised by the turntable in the way a pure-blood might have been. Mr. Weasely, for instance, would have scooped up the object rapturously---without having the slightest idea of what it was. No. I was surprised not by its existence, but by its location. I had once known Sirius's family, and I knew their views on Muggles all too well. And even if I hadn't, the portrait of Sirius's mother doled us all hearty daily reminders. Something so blatantly unmagical had no place in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Unless...

I pushed the turntable a little away from me. Then I rolled back on my haunches, scattering dust, and dug further in the dark slot which had concealed the player. Almost immediately, my fingers encountered another group of objects just a few inches beyond where I had extracted the turntable. Old and slick with dust, they felt like a collection of very thin, sharp-cornered picture books.

My mind confirmed: yes.

For some reason---perhaps because I already knew what they were---I removed them one by one, slowly, turning each one over as if it were a crumbling photograph containing the last faded record of a onetime friend or family member.

A wall, pink-floral paper peeling; and a crooked, black-framed photograph of an old man, bent double beneath a thick, back-bound bouquet of sticks.

A gaudily-iced cake, topped by a panorama of tiny, Technicolor guitarists; everything precariously balanced on a silver needle which pierced a red-centered LP.

A chubby, expressive waitress, clad in yellow, and hefting a tray bearing a yellow glass; all set against a silvery, too-perfect New York City skyline.

Two men beside a wall; the shorter with neck-length dark hair, the taller with a mound of blond curls.

A white brick wall, slashed by black script.

Pure white.

My hands shook. Some of the clingy dust slid off, onto the floor. But the LP collection remained cradled, pricelessly, in my lap. My fingers trembled as they traced the lettering, the faded faces. I knew whose had been the last hands to touch these records. I could almost feel his warmth still in them, his vitality, his eternal frustrated rebellion, all articulated and supplemented by his music, a rock n' roll ghost echoing down the years... oh, how he embodied his decade. War and fear and repression and rebellion. You say you want a revolution? Sound of silence. Buying a stairway to heaven. Can't get no satisfaction.

**

1978

"No, no, no, no..."

The thirteen-year-old's vision swam. Hunching back, staggering like a dazed animal, he sank heavily onto his bed.

"No... it's not that, not that at all... don't know what you're talking about..." the words came vaguely, less of a real denial than a defensive reflex. "No..."

Across the room, James was nearly as white as Remus, though with a different emotion. "Actually, yes. So that's why you wouldn't go to the concert. No wonder." As Remus continued to shiver, gasping negatives like a fish denied water, James continued, " No use denying it. We know." Sirius stood beside him, silent for once. A line had appeared between his eyes.

"You lied to us." James's voice was tight, angry.

"I had---"

"You didn't have to do anything. Not like you were under the Imperius Curse," James bit. "You could have told us. We would have understood." He glanced at Sirius, searching for support. "Wouldn't we have?"

Sirius's dark gaze spilled mutely across the floor. He made no answer.

James frowned. A wedge of his fury was spliced and redirected towards Sirius, who accepted it wordlessly. "We would have," James repeated with authority, and as Sirius did nothing to countermand his friend, the impression was that he spoke for both of them.

Remus's amber eyes, already a whirlpool of muddy panic, drained into a sinkhole. His trembling subsided, and a wasted, black, empty look began to replace his initial horror. He had caught James's conditional. He knew what came next.

"But---" as angry as he was, James's words still sounded tender, like a bruise, "but now you've gone and lied, just as if it were true, what they say about Dark creatures. That you can't trust them. You've gone and proved it. Now how can we trust you?" Dark creature, the suffix was implied.

Remus hung his head. The last of his tremors receded, as ripples are gradually swallowed by the yawning mouth of a pond. He made no response; only gripped his coverlet sharply, until his hands were white claws.

There was a pause.

"Well, goodbye," James ended, awkwardly. He had run out of admonitions. "Come on, Sirius."

Remus heard the military bang as James marched righteously away through the common room. A few moments later, the reluctant click of Sirius's boots followed. The pair reached the carpet and were effectively gone.

Remus did not look up.

Curiously, though, through the blackness looming just above his consciousness, a lone image congealed, dripped through the impending dark like a solitary raindrop into a still pond: a dog, dragging its feet, claws clicking, its tail stuffed guiltily between its legs...

**

A simple portrait: a blond man in glasses and a black sweatshirt against a red background.

Almost mechanically, I lifted the bottommost record to the top of the pile. After gently blowing its cover free of dust, I set the remainder of the collection aside. Then I slid the record from its case.

The fragility of records is a myth, invented by Muggle cartoonists in the 1950's for a few cheap laughs. Like friendships, records are tough. Each is nicked with its own unique set of grooves. Some songs are long and sparse and sad, others so pulsing and life-filled that the needle threatens to set the vinyl aflame. They are well-worn, treasured, trusted.

Is a ghost of a friendship still a friendship? Is the bond still strong enough?

I balanced the LP carefully across my lap. Reaching sideways, I slid the turntable directly in front of me. Without wiping the dust off, I lifted the player's clouded plastic top and laid it aside. My fingers left long furrows, like claw marks, in the grime. With the record cradled preciously in the crook of my elbow, I fumbled with one hand for my wand.

I didn't remember this turntable exactly, but Sirius had owned others. None of these had ever---to my recollection---utilized electricity. Sirius was either too clever or too lazy to rely on an outside power source. Spells were quicker, simpler, did not require an outlet, and did not fail in thunderstorms.

I leveled my wand at the turntable. The spell was whispered, almost as if Sirius's family hung disapprovingly over my shoulders.

"Enviviate."

**

1978, Christmas Eve

The note was on his pillow.

He had avoided them for the next several days. Classes that had always been endured as a trio split, unevenly, into a pair and a single. That pair was always James and Sirius. He had avoided the common room, fleeing to solitary nooks, lairs, and holing there like a shamed thing. He had explored further, stayed out longer, broke more rules than he had ever done in their company. He had completed his homework by a wisp of wand-light, returning to the dormitories only very late.

Sometimes he had followed. Out of love, and loyalty, and hope not yet evaporated. Covertly, behind corners, in the wings of empty corridors. Like the Omega, he trailed the pack, limping, sniffing longingly at their cooling tracks.

When Christmas had come, all three had chosen to remain at school: Sirius for sanity, James for Sirius, Remus by reflex. By that point, he expected nothing, hoped for even less.

But there it was.

He stared down at the note, eyes bleary from a long night's prowling. Blotched, unlined paper, black ink, loopy unpracticed script.

"Remus. Please listen.

I'm sorry. I don't care what you are. James doesn't either. He just doesn't know it yet. I still want to be your friend. James does too.

Will you let me prove it?"

Remus withdrew the note from his pillow. His movements had an air of unreality. Almost absentmindedly, he plucked a quill from his robes, smoothed the paper back down against the pillow, turned it over. His fingers seemed cottoned, his script loosened by the hollow futility of what he was doing.

"Yes."

He crept two beds over and lay the response across Sirius's sleeping form. The he curled into his own bunk, fully expecting to awake the next morning and discover it had all been a dream.

**

The turntable hummed into life. Tiny, Christmas-colored, superfluous lights awoke along its side. They rippled forward and backward, wave-style, as if the player had been an animal stretching its spine.

I lifted the record, that slice of Sirius's defiance, and let it fall with a sigh onto the turntable. The vinyl caught the plastic; with a soft purr, the LP began its revolutions.

How he would have enjoyed this. The music, of course---but more than that, the rebellion. The swift, electronic motion itself, the subversive whirl of the record, so minute, so perfect, so unashamedly unmagical. He had always enjoyed bucking the system, just for the fun of it. Perhaps that was the only reason he had joined the light side: not for any greater moral motivation, but because to do so was to rebel, to tumble among lesser odds, to annoy his family. Sirius Black was always more grey than black. He loved whom he loved and hated whom he hated for personal reasons, grey reasons. It was James who dealt in negatives. He saw life as a chess set: good and evil, white and black. Bald, unforgiving, monochromatic, absolute.

I watched the record spin, noiselessly.

Grey is all. A little light flushes black; a single shadow deflowers white. Grey remains. It's strongest.

That's why Sirius always won.

**

1978, Christmas day

He awoke in the dormitory, alone, the note on his stomach.

It said: "7 p.m. tonight, the common room."

**

The needle still needed to be placed manually. I suspended one finger a bare quarter-inch above the record's outer rim, then counted inwards along the black-grey stripes. Each lighter strip stood for a song. One, two, three---four. Mentally marking the spot, I pinched the turntable's arm delicately between my index finger and thumb. I lifted it from the side of the player and drew it gently across the spinning LP. Then, with a slow daintiness that could have been mistaken for trepidation, I placed the needle on the slick black trough preceding song number four.

There was the familiar squawk of protest, diamond against vinyl, the brief burp of static and the squeal like tires peeling out. I started; the sound slammed the silent attic like a shot, or an earthquake's surprise buckle. I could almost imagine the dust leaping. After that, for about ten seconds, the airy, snaky hiss of a blank record.

Then the music started.

If the static itself had seemed so criminal in this attic, you can well imagine how the music sounded. This was classic rock. It hurled itself into its airspace like a stampede, tempo already established, full instrumentation already present. Clanky honky-tonk piano hits, slow, backed by a choked snaredrum, supporting the buzzsaw yowl of a lone electric guitar. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, must have shuddered to its very bones---more from shame than from shock, of course. Muggle music from a Muggle device, pouring like rain from the attic, relentless, inundating this pure-blood stronghold, seizing it by the hair and dunking it repeatedly against its will. Such insolence. Sirius would have enjoyed it immensely.

My subconscious smiled at the thought, and perhaps some of its glee seeped into my face.

Cranking the volume, I leaned back on my haunches and let the music shake the room.

"...walking through the streets of Soho in the rain. He was looking for the place called Lee Ho Fooks..."

To compound the insolence, when the chorus came, I began to sing along.

"Ahooo...."

**

1978, Christmas Day, 7 p.m.

He cracked the door to the common room. Only a crack; he anticipated a sliver of light, a narrow bar of illumination that would slice the stone hallway and provide him some insight into what Sirius was planning. Instead, the hall's feeble torchlight crept beyond the doorway and faltered almost at once against a greater darkness. The fire in the common room had been snuffed. So had the torches. Even the few curtains were down, drawn like heavy gags across mouths stuffed with stars.

He entered with sliding steps, unsure of his footing.

"Hello?" he queried to the darkness. "Hello? Sirius? James?"

The fabric of the air seemed to rustle.

"Hello? Is... are you there? Sirius?"

He slid another cautious step forward.

And then, out of nowhere, rearing up from the blackness like a stallion, the music began.

**

"...around your kitchen door; better not let him in! Little old lady got..."

**

It hurled itself into its airspace like a stampede, tempo already established, full instrumentation already present. Clanky honky-tonk piano hits, slow, backed by a choked snaredrum, supporting the buzzsaw yowl of a lone electric guitar.

**

"Ahoooooo....."

**

From somewhere indeterminate off to his left, Remus heard a shout.

"James, NOW!"

And then the lights came on.

Oddly enough, the first thing Remus noticed was their muggle clothes.

To his left stood Sirius. A ratted Pink Floyd tee curtained his torso, and a pair of oversized bellbottoms spilled out from his knees to brush the floor. He stood swaying on the balls of his feet, bowlegged and pigeon-toed like an exaggerated cowboy or a squatting spider. Beside him, James crossed his arms over a white "Revolver" sweatshirt. His eyes were quizzical without accusation. One well-shod foot tapped against the carpet with the measured patience of a professor waiting for a student to prove his point.

The second thing Remus noticed was Sirius's invisible microphone. He wielded it with exaggerated flair, shoving it against his teeth one moment and swooping it away the next. His other hand hovered near his knee, batting at an equally invisible cord.

The final things Remus noticed were the speakers. They weren't large, but judging from the bass that was currently thundering from their amplifiers, he guessed they had somehow been magically enhanced. Sirius had positioned them strategically: hengelike, the three speakers ringed Sirius and James and created the illusion of a stage. Atop the middle speaker Remus spied the turntable, looking small and brown and unassuming, maybe even a bit embarrassed at the ruckus it was helping create.

He didn't have time to notice much else. Four bars of music later, the lyrics began.

"I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand, walking through the streets of Soho in the rain---"

Remus gasped, tawny eyes widening. He had been too busy gawking at Sirius to pay much attention to the music's identity. But the appearance of words had snapped him into realization. Remus knew the artist, recognized the song.

"He was looking for the place called Lee Ho Fooks---"

"Sirius!---" he began, but stopped when he realized he had not the remotest chance of being heard.

"Gonna get a big dish of beef chow mein---"

Sirius was in full show mode. Shoulders undulating, hips gyrating, head thrown back like a black mop, he was wailing unabashedly into the air-mike, voice unhindered by his wild calisthenics. The hand which had previously been employed in batting the cord now clawed the air beseechingly in front of him. A huge grin was fixed across his face; his eyes were fixed on Remus.

Remus met them. Startingly, he discovered, his friend's frivolity did not extend to his eyes. The twin eclipses were as somber as Remus had ever seen them---not brown, in the overbright lights, but an intense, meaningful grey. They were like messengers; he felt he should be reading something there. Baffled, he broke contact. His gaze flickered over to James, who also met his eyes; dark and sleek and curious behind the white glare of his glasses.

He looked away again as Sirius reached the chorus.

"Ahoooooo! Werewolves of London! Ahoooooo!"

Sirius shut his eyes for the howl, dropping nearly to his knees as he leaned into the sound. Cutting eye contact neatly removed any sobriety from the scene. Sirius pried at his crooked smile with the microphone, twisting his hips in a particularly vicious gyration.

"Ahooooo! Werewolves of London! Ahooooo!"

As if his first bout of dancing had not been expressive enough, Sirius latched onto the next verse and began to physically narrate.

"If you hear him howling around your kitchen door---"

He cupped one hand to his ear and sucked in his cheeks in mock-trepidation.

"---you better not let him in!"

With an audible yelp of glee, Sirius leapt forward, grabbing Remus by the shoulder and hauling him across the common room to the "stage," where he promptly pushed him back, almost into James. Then he leapt away, crossing both hands in front of him and shaking his head sternly, as if in censure. Still off-balance, Remus flailed; but a broad hand caught the small of his back and shoved him upright. He glanced backwards with surprise. It was James.

Apparently oblivious, Sirius continued dancing.

"Little old lady got mutilated late last night---"

He adopted a glassy-eyed look of horror and waggled his index finger at Remus.

"Werewolves of London again!"

The waggle became an accusatory point, the terror a bare-toothed sneer. He inched closer to Remus, just enough so that he could jab home his point, then leapt backwards again, shaking and wiping his finger on his jeans, as if to disinfect it. Remus simply stood there, swaying a little, harmless, confused. From behind him, he thought he heard James's snort of laughter.

"He's the hairy-handed gent who ran amok in Kent---"

At "amok," Sirius lolled his tongue and flopped his head about like a mannequin with a seizure. Out of the corner of his eye, Remus caught James smiling.

"Lately he's been overheard in Mayfair."

Sirius used the line to duck behind James. Nabbing him by one ear, he pulled them both to a squatting position. From there, Sirius resumed his accusatory point, coupling it once again with the empty-eyed gape of terror. The next few lines he whispered---rather loudly and rather pointlessly, considering they were being simultaneously blasted by the speakers---directly into James's ear. At the same time, he angled James's head so that he was staring directly at Remus. His voice shook, but with the artificially eerie warble of ghost-calls on television Halloween specials.

"You better stay away from him---he'll rip your lungs out, Jim!"

Apprehensively, Remus met James's gaze. At first, the white flash of his glasses hid his expression and gave Remus the chilling impression that he was staring at two full moons; but a moment later, the light changed, the moons sunk, and Remus was left with James's eyes. The curious beetle-black look was gone. They were chestnut, warmed to a clear hazel by mirth, and---Remus blinked with shock---utterly unafraid. Indeed, judging by their slightly whimsical sparkle, it looked as if the last thing on James's mind was the possibility that Remus might rip his lungs out.

Next to James, Sirius was grinning.

Then something amazing happened. Reaching out along the floor, James caught a bottom corner of Remus's shabby robes and rubbed the threadbare fabric between his fingers. Then he cocked his head up at Remus, drawing the tattered hemline through his palm, and, chuckling, sang the next lyric himself:

"Huh! I'd like to meet his tailor."

Remus stumbled backward, too stunned for words. Seeing him falter, James pushed to his feet, offering a helping arm. Fortunately, Remus righted himself in time, and they were left facing each other awkwardly.

They stared at one another for a moment. Then, as Warren Zevon broke into another yowling chorus, James shook his head briskly, as if to clear it. Then he smiled. Grinning sheepishly, he offered his hand. Remus took it; they shook.

On the floor, Sirius leaned back and howled.

"Ahooooo! Werewolves of London! Ahooooo!"

By the time the song got to Lon Cheney, all three of them were singing along.

** * ** * ** *

"I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vick's. His hair was perfect. Ahoooo.... Werewolves of London... draw blood... ahoooo...."

The song was one of those that ended gradually. The chorus, occasionally modulated, faded slowly beneath a quiet wash of static hiss.

As soon as it had finished and the silence was absolute, I quickly plucked the needle from the surface of the record. The turntable spat its disapproval, but I leveled my wand at the device and whispered "Inanimus." A minute later, even the spinning hiss of the record had died away. I had no desire to hear a second song.

I sat there for awhile, in the dust, in the silence.

It occurred to me (as it often had) that we couldn't bury him here. There was no body to lay to rest beneath Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, no coffin to seal beneath the dark earth of the Black family graveyard. Perhaps this was for the better. Sirius defied definition, even physical definition. Any finality, for him---even if it were his final resting place---would have dictated boundaries, force him to choose either black or white, force him to surrender his rebellion.

I glanced again at the tired LP collection, the mute turntable. Perhaps, then, it was better if he were remembered through less restrictive mediums: possessions, memories. Friends. Those who loved and did not judge, as he had once taught James.

I could help with that.

Placing the dusty records atop the turntable, I gathered the whole unwieldy bundle in my arms. Records are like friendships, I guess. They're strong. The older they get, the more you treasure them---even if the artist isn't with you anymore. Especially if the artist isn't with you anymore. Then all you have is the record, and you have to keep playing it, lest you forget what it sounds like.

I smiled down at my armful. I had always sort of wanted a turntable, anyway. I'm sure Sirius wouldn't begrudge me the gift; on the contrary, he'd probably bequeath it enthusiastically. Especially if I played his music.

Still smiling, and humming a little Zevon, I headed off downstairs.

**

Full lyrics, copyright Warren Zevon, 1978

I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand
Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain
He was looking for a place called Lee Ho Fook's
Going to get himself a big dish of beef chow mein
Ahooo Werewolves of London

Ahooo *repeat*

If you hear him howling around your kitchen door
Better not let him in
Little old lady got mutilated late last night
Werewolves of London again
Ahooo Werewolves of London

Ahooo *repeat*

He's the hairy-handed gent who ran amuck in Kent
Lately he's been overheard in Mayfair
Better stay away from him
He'll rip your lungs out, Jim
I'd like to meet his tailor
*chorus*

Well, I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen
Doing the Werewolves of London
I saw Lon Chaney, Jr. walking with the Queen
Doing the Werewolves of London
I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic's
His hair was perfect
*chorus*
Draw blood

***