Regret

I should have noticed it before, from the very beginning. The clues were all there, but I didn't think to look - I had no reason to suspect anything. Not from you.

We were friends. Best friends. You, James, Peter and I, the Marauders, the ones all the students looked up to because we were cool. Well - you and James were, because you were both popular and handsome and funny and good at Quidditch. As for Peter and I, well, no one would have given us a second glance if we hadn't been with the two of you.

Best friends. And then - suddenly - everything tumbled. A look; your dark hair grazing my shoulder when you leaned in to share a joke; the way you leaned in for just a second too long; and finally a low-pitched conversation between trees, at the edge of the lake; a kiss, and a question.

I said yes, because I was naïve; because I liked you, you and your wickedness and your weird sense of humour, and I liked your way of courting me.

You looked ecstatic, and stunned at your good fortune, as though you'd gotten something you'd prayed for for ages and never expected to find. I never thought you'd look at me like tht. I never thought anyone would look at me like that.

That night was surreal. You crept into my bed when you thought everyone else in the dorm was asleep. We lay on the sheets, side by side, and you held me tight in your arms, and whispered in my ear that you loved me, and I realized that I was in over my head, and that something would likely go horribly wrong and you'd despise me by the end of this. I fell asleep, there, next to you, and you kissed me while I dreamt.

Then I woke up, really woke up, and wondered what the fuck I was doing. I didn't try to get out, though. It was so flattering to have an admirer, to know that I was beautiful enough, intelligent enough, interesting enough for someone to love me. For Sirius Black, resident sex god of Hogwarts, to love me. It was like some sort of strange miracle. I felt almost like it validated my existence, as though all that time I'd just been living for you to love me (which was ridiculous, especially since I didn't love you back). It made me feel so special, too special for me to give it up; and I thought to myself, what's the worst that could happen?

[Like I said, I was naïve.]

You were so proud of having finally gotten me after wanting me for so long (how long I never really knew) that you thought everybody should know and congratulate you and be happy for you. It never crossed your mind that not everyone might look at it that way. You told James and Lily and Peter, and Peter told everybody he knew, and by nightfall you couldn't find a single person in Hogwarts who wasn't talking about it.

About us.

I couldn't stand them all knowing. What right did they have, these commoners, these people with no link whatsoever to me or you, to know the most intimate details of my life? And what right did you have to kiss and tell like that, to let news of something so special and secret spread around the whole school like that?

[This is where it becomes your fault. Just barely.]

The snickers. The rumours. The sideways glances in hallways. Being in a room and hearing whispers, and knowing they're about me, and that nobody's whispering nice things. Snatches of conversation following me everywhere: "Black and Lupin? Are you sure?" - "Now I know why Sirius turned me down for a date last Saturday night..." - "...always thought Black's queer, just look at those dragon-hide trousers, and the hair" - "you owe me ten Sickles! Told you Lupin is a fag..." - "they shagged in the Prefects' bathroom" - "I can't believe it..." - "they say they're in love, but..." - "this school is going to the dogs, poufs everywhere, someone should write the Minister..."

It was like that everywhere.

And it was all your fault.

I hated you, then. Hated your name. I avoided you like the plague, afraid of what you might say to me, of what I might say to you if I didn't restrain myself, but most of all of what anyone else might say if they saw us together.

You owled me every day telling me that you were sorry, that you didn't think things would turn out that way, that it wasn't your fault, and would I please stop avoiding you, because you loved me, and that we should just ignore the rumour-mongers.

I never replied, of course.

I always wince when I remember what I was like, then. So stupid, callous and selfish... I can't make any excuses.

What difference would it make, now, anyway?

I felt bad then, but for myself; I was most of all indignant.

James tried to talk sense into me, and when that didn't work even Lily took up the task. Remus, she'd say to me in her quiet voice, Remus, you have to speak to Sirius. I imagine how you must feel, but it isn't his fault at all, and you're only making things worse by avoiding him like this. Don't you love him at all? (No, I'd reply viciously, no, I don't love him and I never did and never will!) If it's anyone's fault it's Peter's, he's the one who told every person he knew. Sirius just told his closest friends, because he was so happy to be with you - he couldn't have known Peter would blab like that. Remus, please.

I'd say no. I was adamant. It was your own fault. You deserved to suffer. I did speak to you once, when I managed to corner you alone in a hallway, and I told you to stop sending me letters and to stay the fuck away from me.

[In hindsight - Peter was never good at keeping secrets, was he?]

This debacle broke up the Marauders, and everybody knew why.

After some time it occurred to me, much, much too late, that I'd been a complete and utter twat about the whole thing, that it was my fault for not setting things straight (gods, what a stupid pun) from the very beginning, and that I'd treated you like shit.

But by then there was nothing I could do. An apology wouldn't have made you feel better at that point in time; besides, I had the feeling you'd much rather I left you alone: you were avoiding me, by then, and whenever by chance we'd find ourselves the sole occupants of a room, you would yelp, throw me a glance that was a mix of terror and resentment, and rush out.

[It strikes me as somewhat ironic when I think about it now for Sirius Black, who was never afraid of anything, to be afraid of me.]

Time passed, very slowly and very painfully - it was so hard, during that last year of Hogwarts, not to speak to each other; occasionally one of us would relapse and greet the other, or make a joke, before realizing we were supposed to be quasi-enemies now.

We graduated. We moved to different cities - I suppose this was because you wanted to be as far away from me as possible. I didn't go to James' and Lily's wedding because I knew you'd be there and I couldn't stand the idea of facing you, and what would we have said to each other? And then they died, and you went on the run, and I couldn't contact you. I was interrogated by Ministry officials who thought I might know your whereabouts, and I didn't lie when I said I didn't.

You were caught and sent to Azkaban, and I wondered if you heard my voice in your head, when the Dementors got too close, telling you to stay away from me.

And it's been ten years, now, since I've last seen you, and I'm still feeling like an utter bastard, wondering if you've forgiven me by now, whether you even remember me at all (somehow I don't think you'd have forgotten me). I probably won't ever see you again, either.

I'd like to visit you in Azkaban, or write you, and apologize, and explain, and make amends, but...

What would be the point, by now?