Movement

Trains.

Movement.

An endless circle.

The Moon.

The vicious circle.

A different movement.

Trains.

I can't seem to remember a time when I wasn't moving. When I was absolutely still. Maybe it's best not to try to remember. Memories show you what was, and what is, what you cannot change, what you cannot have. What cannot be. The scenery of a life changes, becomes real, becomes fact. Years pass in a solemn progression, a sacrifice to what is.

If I rest, try for some small ease, I am always defeated. The change comes, bringing seemingly small movements that become large, uncontrollable. How can these small movements, these small changes, have such an impact? When they come, the combined force throws me off my feet, reduces me to something beneath myself, yet, disgustingly, of myself. It's easy to say that I become something other, but in truth after the change I am merely different. The pitching, roiling of the skin, the shifting of bone. It's still me, in blood, tissue and flesh. In my mind something takes over; ancient, primal, evil. Loping through woods, I am riding a beast. It is the worst of myself.

The shock and horror when teeth meet resistance, when a movement is not your own. The kill. Movement of skin, muscle, sinew. Puncturing the body, tearing away strips of what was once whole. Paws (hands) seek purchase, slicing through artery and vein like some red harvest. Blood pours down, spatters of useless rain. I say I can't recall. It's better that way. Easier to avoid introspection if you tell yourself it's all a blur. I can remember questions from the well meaning and the nosy.

"Why do you want to kill people?" Like I have any control at all.

"What does it feel like?" Would you like me to demonstrate?

"Have you been possessed by a spirit?" I hope so. If this is just a small portion of my true being, I may go insane.

"Is it liberating?" Liberating. For pity's sake, how can anything you are locked into be liberating? A small voice behind consciousness urges pain. Longs to rip, to tear. I've learned to stay quiet.

There is no way around it; I am a monster. And I would be hunted down by anyone who has unknowingly befriended me in my travels, should they find me out. So I choose movement. The release of flight. Bars might protect, but distance will. A prison of solitude.

***

Once upon a time. Just like all fairy tales.

A brief rest. Welcomed with open arms. "As you are," he said. Never before had someone known and been welcoming. I was defended. Protected. Given a place to study, to grow. Somewhere to go to when the change would come. I felt like I was in charge of my destiny.

A place to form friendships like I had never known. At first I was skeptical and distant. When they know who I am, what I am, they will discard me. How could they possibly understand. I won't be good enough. But they discovered my secret and it made no difference. They tried to be like me. The incomprehensibility of it. They studied, pored over illicit texts. Tomes far above what our year would be trying to grasp. And they succeeded. A pure joy such as I had never known. Running through the woods, lured on by animals that my moon-changed mind could sense were like me. The urge to kill dissipated in the company of others. A kind of freedom.

But just like all fairy tales, there is a monster, lying in wait.

A childish prank. My hell broke loose. An innocent almost killed. If James hadn't thought quickly I might have actually - - may have even escaped. No amount of wanting to stop on my part can ever control the beast I become. The thought of hurting, of killing someone is vile, disgusting, corrupt. The thought of hurting, of killing, someone I love, even the smallest chance of it, is something that cannot be borne. I could never take the chance of that happening again. I had to go. Sirius begged, James pleaded, but somehow Peter knew the why of it and said nothing.

***

A return. After years of penance.

Called back to the only real home I knew. To a promise of rest, of ease. Quiet study and perhaps even a cure. Potions from one who would see me dead. His movement into compassion? Emotions can move, change, become more malleable. Perhaps not. Duty? Loyalty to one we both would die for? That is a much likelier possibility.

Harry. Looking so much like James it makes my heart stop to think of it. James with Lily's eyes. A perfect coalescence of the love they had shared. Perhaps Harry wouldn't be Harry if James and Lily were still alive, if their love was still here? He would have to be dimmer, paler somehow. But then all things paled when compared to the love they shared. The idea that anyone could love another with that much power is something I still cannot grasp. James was struck dumb with it the moment he first saw her. And Lily, she loved with her whole heart. That Harry is here now is proof of that. Living proof.

Sirius. I was surprised at first that the years in Azkaban hadn't changed him more. But he has always had a hardness that is difficult to breach. He says that he spend most of his time in his animal state and was therefore virtually untouched. But he has always been about false bravado. I can see that there is pain and damage far beyond anything that even he can sense. But I noticed it. Call it the nature of the beast. He chooses movement to stay one step ahead of those who believe him guilty of Peter's crimes. But what will happen when he is cleared and can settle down? And he will be, I am sure of it. Will the remembrances of Azkaban come for him? Can he get past what has happened and move on? Or will he spin in a vicious circle, fruitless movement accomplishing nothing, leading only to madness.

***

Now we gather before the storm. Nerves tingle with remembered energy. Coming together again to face something we all desperately wanted to believe would never return. Hushed whispers, locked doors. Lights and movement everywhere. All signs and portents. And fear, always fear, lurks everywhere. Fear clings to me, too. Fear for those I care for and so help me, a small bit of fear for myself. But it will be over, the evil vanquished. I am sure of it. The alternative is too terrible to contemplate. Whatever waits for us all, we must go towards it. Moving forward, into the unknown. The more you study life, try to pin it down, the greater the mystery. And you end up stuck on a train, yearning for things that cannot be.

***

I think of other lives, lives better lived. I think of James and Lily. Sadness like pain. But I remember: happiness, love, family, Harry. The sting of wanting comes on me, sudden like a slap. To revisit the calm happiness of youth. Of school, friendships and trust. To start again, better this time, appreciating it for what it is. To be different.

But movement only travels forward. Looking back forces you to temporarily blind yourself to what lies ahead. And I must always, always be aware of what will come. What will always come. Time is a precious commodity and one I have an all-too-keen awareness of. I hoard it like a miser, keeping an all too close watch on it. "I have three hours until -" "There are four days before -" "Tonight will only last eight hours -." Loss of time is a luxury I cannot afford.

In quiet moments, when train moves for me and I am still, I think on other lives. Lives where time can lose meaning. Hours pass, a weekend is gone and not even missed. Lost in a haze of love, of life, of connection. Touch of skin, a look from the one who loves you. The smiles of family gatherings, the laughter of friends old and new. Love. My own - Perhaps I too could have had. Perhaps still. To move beyond what has been done, from my curse, into a quiet life. A life of no movement. What I have. What I need. What I must abide. But there is hope, always hope. Perhaps the greatest need of all.

***

There must be some grain of truth to that Muggle saying - a body in motion tends to stay in motion.

And so must I.