Treading Water

    Twelve-year-old Sirius Black woke with a start. Wrinkling his nose at his own fitful sleeping, he sat up and pushed the curtains around his bed to the side. Peter’s loud drone of a snore was filling the room, accompanied by James and the soft whistling his breath fell into when sleep took him. Remus was lying, asleep, in the bed next to Sirius’.

    Silently, Sirius climbed out of bed. Standing beside his friend, he took a moment to observe Remus as he hadn’t before.

    The boy was slumbering on his back, the covers pushed down to his waist. One hand was curled behind him on the pillow; the other lay beside him, entwined in the wool of the bedclothes. He shifted slightly in his sleep, wrinkling his nose slightly, and Sirius couldn’t help but stare at him.

    He had ivory skin, the palest Sirius had seen, but this pallid perfection was thinly lined with something beyond his twelve years. Had he not known better, Sirius would have thought him at least five years older than himself.

    Remus wriggled a little again, one dirty-blonde eyebrow dropping in confused languor. Almost instinctively, Sirius reached forward to touch the boy’s lips; thin on the top, pouty on the bottom, and the most alluring peach color he had ever seen.

    He caught himself at the last moment, his hand mere millimeters from the soft mouth.

    Remus’ eyes shot open, Sirius’ outstretched hand shot back, and for a moment no one moved.

    Then Remus heaved himself out of bed, yawning, and brushed past Sirius. “My God, Sirius, what is your problem?” he asked, the anger in his voice barely contained to a whisper.

    Sirius stared at his friend as he pulled his worn old bathrobe on over his pajamas. He watched, entranced, as Remus slid his slippers - the fuzzy burgundy ones - onto his feet and somehow managed to stomp silently out of the dorm.

    Sirius hesitated. Following could be potentially lethal, and yet-

    There was, simply put, something captivating about the fading footsteps, something wonderfully confusing about the lingering tone of Remus’ voice, and-

    He followed.

    Down, down the cold stone steps, barefoot, nearly on tip toe to avoid being caught by his retreating friend.

    He caught up with the other boy way out on the grounds, across the Quidditch pitch and right up to the squishy bank of the lake. Sirius stayed back, ten feet back, holding his breath, his eyes tangled up in the way the wind tugged on his friend’s light brown locks.

    He shivered once, twice in the cool autumn air. He was beginning to step back, preparing to run away, when, out of nowhere, Remus spoke.

    “Sirius?” he murmured softly, his voice questioning, wondering. Hopeful.

    Sirius hesitated, feeling twelve years worth of knowledge pressing him to turn back, leave, but-

    He stayed.

    “Sirius?” repeated the other boy, quieter this time, doubtful, and he turned slightly to gaze over his shoulder.

    Sirius froze as light brown eyes locked on his grey. An odd emotion washed over that perfect face: relief, lingering rage, and something no twelve-year-old can place.

    He took a step closer to Remus, and another and another and another, until he was only two feet from his friend.    

    The stars were all reflected in those eyes, those golden wells of emotion, and it was then that Sirius noticed the heavy teardrops in Remus’ eyes, the wall of sadness that threatened to spill all down those young cheeks, aged beyond their years.

    “Remus?” he responded gently, nervously shifting feet.

    Remus breathed deeply, never blinking, and looked up at the moon before speaking. “Why, Sirius?” he asked, his voice trembling in that way that children’s do when they are scared or confused or just sad or mad. “Why?”

    “Why what?” asked an equally bemused Sirius, his almost-teenaged voice cracking slightly. He grinned embarrassedly, wishing that his voice would hurry up and deepen.

    Remus blinked. A pair of tears slipped down his cheeks. “Why do you have to know?”

    “Know what?” asked Sirius, more confused than ever.

    “That I’m a werewolf,” yelled Remus, his voice echoing out over the surface of the lake.

    “But I don-” He stopped. “You- you’re a werewolf?”

    Remus bit his lip, that perfect, peachy lip, and nodded. “You didn’t guess?” he asked.

    Sirius looked away. Another tear slid down Remus’ right cheek. “We’re not all as smart as you,” he smiled, his voice still shock-ridden but at least not cracking.

    Remus didn’t smile back, his lips bending into a frown. He exhaled slowly again, and more tears collected under his eyes. “What’s the use?” he asked Sirius.

    “What?” asked his friend, reaching a hand out for him. It fell emptily by his side. “What do you mean, Remus?”

    “I mean…what’s the point of being smart?” he asked. “You think I can get a job, Sirius? Have a life? Be anything?” He hesitated, seeing the cheerless look on Sirius’ face. “You’re wrong, Sirius,” he said simply.

    Sirius paused, studying his heartrendingly perfect friend. He was the first to admit that he was never one for comforting people; given the opportunity to simply hold a tear-stricken friend, he was more than likely to run quite quickly in the opposite direction.

    Now, though, something was different.

    Remus was staring at him, his eyes and the little depressions below them shining with melancholy. And, suddenly fighting the urge to run, and setting aside all values of right and wrong and what should but never could be, Sirius took a breath, and all at once-

    He kissed him.

    It was the sort of kiss that only happens once, and never for some people. It was the sort of kiss that only two not-quite-teenagers can share, one that is only about love, without the promise of sex later that night, or forgotten promises and old obligations.

    Sirius was surprised in himself. Distantly, he wondered what he was doing, but there was something intoxicating about the feel of Remus’ silken lips to his own, something exhilarating about the feel of a first kiss.

    Remus was crying, still crying, the round tears splashing onto his face and dampening Sirius’ own skin, and-

    He pushed him away.

    Sirius stumbled back, looking not quite offended but still shocked, and, with a small splash, fell in the lake.

    Remus’ hand flew to his mouth. Inching towards the water, he knelt down beside the blackness.

    One, two, three, five, ten seconds, and Sirius had not appeared. Remus stood slightly, his legs aching, and felt his breath quicken. Then, as he started to choke on his own rapid breath-

    His head bobbed to the surface.

    Sirius was laughing, his hair all matted to his skin. He met Remus’ terrified eyes.

    “Scared you, eh?”

    “I hate you,” admitted a tearful Remus.

    Sirius laughed. “Wanna help me up, then?”

    Remus extended his hand towards the sopping mess that was Sirius. The other boy seized his pale fingers tightly; Remus went to pull his friend up, but all at once, the stronger boy jerked his hand.

    Remus bobbled before Sirius, gasping, his pale skin shining with the fresh kiss of lake water in the impending moonlight. His light hair was plastered to his face, hanging in thick locks all around his head.

    Sirius slipped a hand under his friend’s arm. “You all right, mate?”

    Remus paled then flushed, feeling the cold saturation of the water on his skin. He nodded shakily, leaning into the hand Sirius had extended. His feet didn’t reach the bottom.

    Sirius put his hand under Remus’ other arm, supporting him in the chilly depths. Sighing, he let his toes sink into the muddy ground that was the lake bottom. Remus shook his head to clear it. A soaking strand of hair fell out of his eyes. He shivered once, twice, treading water, and smiled.

    Silence.

    “I’m sorry,” murmured Sirius eventually.

    “Why?”

    Sirius looked away, sinking slightly in the cold water. Remus gasped, kicking furiously, and wrinkled his brow. “Why, Sirius?”

    “Because…because I shouldn’t have done that,” he said simply.

    Silence on Remus’ part.

    “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I shouldn’t have-”

    His words were cut off by a second kiss, different, from Remus. His friend touched his own lips to Sirius’, treading water and kissing him, not drawing a breath.

    This kiss was not the same as the first; there was something strange going on in the pit of Sirius’ stomach, something involving the cold wetness of the lake and the warmth of Remus’ skin against his fingers, and he closed his eyes in peace.

    Remus’ lips were pressed against his own, sealing him off from the world, and he wondered if he had lost everything but this one thing, for all maxims of right and wrong seemed breached, broken, and he knew he was losing air and needed breath, but somehow didn’t care.

    Remus pulled back finally, the feel of silk to velvet remaining on Sirius’ mouth, and he opened his eyes slowly, wondering if when he did he would still be twelve and cold and wet, and not care. And-

    He was.

    Remus was floating before him, grinning hesitantly, his early-matured face shining in damp pallor, and when he blinked, beads of lake water slid down his dusky lashes. Sirius looked down, feeling a faint blush creep up into his cheeks.

    “Oh,” he murmured, feeling at some utter loss, and wondered what the boy before him was thinking.

    “Yes,” whispered his friend, trying hard to contain some dopey smile, and he blinked again, his hair hanging in damp strings about his head.

    “Remus, I-” began Sirius, letting the mud below squish around his feet and envelope his toes.

    Surprisingly, he received an icy splash of water in the face.

    “Rem!” he sputtered, spitting the last traces of water out of his face. Remus grinned, wider this time, and slipped out of Sirius’ grip. The dark-haired boy’s eyes widened in terror, but Remus tread water feverishly, and splashed Sirius again.

    “Hey!” yelled the boy, pushing a wave of cool lake towards his friend.

    Remus laughed, his silvery laugh that whispered of something beyond the knowledge of twelve-year olds. Sirius joined in, floating towards his blonde friend, his brassy laugh loud and raucous but not overtaking Remus’.

                        *

    Remus Lupin, 39, Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts, stared out of the window of his office. The two boys in the lake below were playing, their laughter carrying all the way to his ears stories above. He winced at the sound of cool water hitting an unprotected face. He blinked, the crow’s feet around his eyes contorting.

    The boys were fading into the mist, drifting into nothingness, and with another blink, they had disappeared, inaccessible.

    He closed his eyes wretchedly, then opened them to the impending darkness. With a sigh, he reached for the goblet. Swilling the potion around, he stared into the unnatural depths. Cringing in anticipation, he downed it, letting the salty and sour burn of flaming plastic fill his body. Recoiling at the bitter aftertaste, he gazed back out the window.

    The two boys were utterly gone now, gone but not forgotten, and as he closed his eyes in bittersweet remembrance, a tear slid down his left cheek.