Lessons in Loathing

Remus Lupin

It's amazing how fast a life can change.

The moon's a shade away from full, one day waiting. I sit on a rock outcropping, watching it and longing for it. Longing for tomorrow, when I can lose myself in the pain, the freedom, the wild abandon of the hunt--the kill--and I can leave my life behind, forget myself, my heart, my agonized remembrance.

How bad is it when my greatest fear has become my greatest longing and only relief?

Every night, I wake up with his name on my lips. Most of the wizarding world fears to say Voldemort's name, afraid of the name as they are afraid of the man. Voldemort's name means nothing to me. The one I wake up with every night--screaming, moaning, whispering, pleading--how can one man control so many of my emotions? That name is far, far worse. Voldemort may fill me with loathing, but his name isn't the one that makes my knees go weak, fills my throat with bile and sets me to weeping every time I'm reminded of my old friends, or our time at Hogwarts.

Sirius Black.

I blame myself. Everyone knew the Blacks were a family of Pureblood Dark wizards. Even worse than the Malfoys. Even a Malfoy has a sense of dignity and loyalty. I suspected him. We all knew there had to be an inside traitor. I suspected it was him. I could have stopped him. It was all my fault, because I let my memories, my feelings, get in the way.

James showing off. Lily pretending she didn't fancy him. Peter worshipping James. Sirius laughing, teasing, smiling--he had the most wonderful smile.

It was so hard for me to accept that everything was a lie. I still find myself denying it, desperate for some excuses, some way to cling to my memories, some how to forgive him.

I was weak. I was foolish. It's my fault that my friends are dead.

James died protecting his wife and child, betrayed by his best friend. Lily gave her life to protect Harry. All they found of Peter was one of his fingers. Now Harry will grow up and orphan, living with muggle relatives who hate everything he is, everything for which his parents died.

All of this is my fault.

Sirius laughed when he killed Peter and those muggles. He laughed as they took him away to Azkaban. It was a high, desperate laugh, mad, soulless and evil. It echoes in my head, haunts my dreams. Every night I dream of him.

When the dreams are nightmares, I can endure it. I see him killing James and Lily with his own hands, murdering Peter again and again, a hundred different ways. I see him laughing--laughing--and when I wake up, screaming, I hate him. The hate helps me survive.

What I can't bear is the other sort of dream. He comes to me, smiling his beautiful smile, happy and laughing, and we talk like we did before, walking with James and Lily. I see him at their wedding, cheering and teasing. I see him holding Harry in his arms, the perfect charade of the perfect godfather. Those dreams are worst. I wake up with his name on my lips, heart aching for my best friends, and I'm smiling, until it all comes back to me. I retch, disgusted with myself and loathing him all the more.

I have never known a more talented actor.

Making friends, for me, is the hardest thing in the world. So many of the people I hoped to befriend turned their backs on me when they learned what I am. Sirius was different. He drew me out of my mental shields, made me his friend, stayed by me when he learned my secret, and goaded James and Peter to become Animagi--all for me. I adored him.

He was so brave, so funny, so sure of himself, so intelligent--I was the brains of the group, but he was better with people, seeing connections and suggesting elaborate plots to get around every problem.

James and Sirius were always the life of any party, popular with all the other students, yet they included Peter and myself--guaranteed social rejects--as best friends. I idolized Sirius the way Peter drooled over James. I was just better at hiding it.

I still adore him. I hate myself for that.

Sometimes I find myself wondering what would have happened if Voldemort had never come along. Sirius was already drawn to the dark arts. It was in his blood. Loyalty to Voldemort was practically his birthright.

Yet, if Voldemort had never come along, Sirius wouldn't have been tempted, and he might have--

NO!

I hate myself with renewed disgust. Sirius Black was a dark wizard from birth. He should have been in Slytherin from the beginning. Any good we ever saw in him was a lie. I can't let myself make excuses and believe fantasies. Sirius Black is a murderer.

There's an old Hellene heroine who said "it is not my nature to join in hating, but in loving." My friends taught me to love. Sirius Black taught me to hate.

I don't hate Voldemort. I pity him. Voldemort never had friends to betray. Voldemort never had a best friend to murder, along with his wife and innocent child. Voldemort didn't first win the trust of those he slaughtered. Voldemort didn't make me love him.

I hate Sirius Black.

Inside me, I feel the wolf fighting this too-human cage of bones. He yearns to take control of my body, my soul, and I welcome it. It's my only escape.

It's the only way I can stop thinking about him.