Victims of Happenstance

It just so happened that on September 1st of 1971, I arrived for the first time at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and, just like you, was sorted into Gryffindor House. And then a month later, when Professor McGonagall said "I want all of you dressed in your best formal attire for the Halloween Gala" we all knew she meant it, but of course, as would become routine, the four of us--you, me, James and Peter--never got around to doing what we were supposed to do until the very last minute.

It took me even longer, though, because I didn't want any of you to see my scars, didn't want to have to answer all your questions, didn't want to have to tell you what I turned into every full moon. So, with my back to the room, I waited for everyone to leave, and when I heard the door slam shut and heard James and Peter's muffled laughter on the other side of it as they headed down the stairs, I finally peeled off my shirt.

I thought I was alone. But you had quietly hung back, too. And you saw the scars. And you didn't ask any questions.

You had scars of your own. You showed them all to me. One long one across your back, the only time your father whipped you hard enough to draw blood. A small perfect circle on your knee, from when you were a baby and your drunk mother fell asleep with her cigarette still lit and burned you while you sat cradled in her lap. Several tiny slits across both arms, because your cousin Bellatrix told you once that cutting yourself would make your troubles vanish.

"Does your family hurt you, too?" you asked, and thinking back on it now, you sounded so innocent and so caring. And I told you "No, I did it to myself." And I told you what I turned into once a month. And you didn't run from me like I thought you would.

Instead, you put your arms around me and hugged me tight and whispered in my ear, "I hope things are better for us, now that we're here."

***

It just so happened that by the time we'd reached seventh year, there was nothing you loved to do more than shock people, and so you begged me for three months straight to go with you to the Yule Ball because, as you so tactfully put it, "people's jaws would just fucking drop" if you showed up with a boy on your arm.

I felt a little used, felt a little like I wasn't good for anything but employment by your need to be the center of attention at all times, but I didn't care because I liked the way your hair fell in your eyes and how every time you asked me to go with you you'd bite your lip anxiously, and also because I would've done anything or gone anywhere just to be with you, even if it was just for shock value.

And I served my purpose. Everybody gasped and muttered, and Snape and the rest of the Slytherins spouted a million nasty things at us, but we laughed and danced every dance together, even the slow ones. I'd never been so happy in my life, and it must have shown, because you looked at me funny and asked, "Why are you smiling so much?"

I couldn't answer, because I was too busy smiling, but that was alright because you kissed me.

You kissed me.

For a second I didn't know what to do. I was wrapped up in wondering whether you were doing this because you wanted to or just to add more of that shock value you loved so much, but I kissed you back anyway and decided not to worry about it anymore.

And then, five hours later, I didn't have to worry about it anymore.

James and Lily had gone off to their "secret spot"--wherever that was--for the night, and Peter was passed out drunk on the couch in the common room, and we were all alone in the bedroom. I was hoping like hell you would kiss me again--you'd only done it that once on the dance floor--but we changed into our nightclothes in silence, muttered our goodnights, and then slipped into our own beds.

I had just about given up and convinced myself that any hope of ever being with you was foolish and unfounded and was three seconds from breaking down in tears, and then I heard you crossing the room, and I prayed to God that the drapes on my bed would pull back and you'd crawl in and stretch out next to me and kiss me again.

And then the drapes on my bed pulled back.

And you crawled in and stretched out next to me.

And you kissed me again.

We didn't wake up until late in the afternoon the next day, and when we did we were both naked and stiff, and James laughed at us for hours, but I didn't care because I was so grateful for everything that had brought us to that point.

And that evening, you were running late for Quidditch practice, and James ran out without waiting for you, but you hung back long enough to kiss me and then to say goodbye, but you didn't leave until you'd lifted my chin to make me look you in the eye, and you said "I love you."

And I was so happy and so dumbstruck that I forgot to say it back before you left the room.

It didn't matter, though, because you'd give me plenty of chances to say it afterward.

***

It just so happened that, at the age of nineteen, Severus Snape had the good sense to turn his back on Voldemort and join the Order of the Phoenix, and although I tried to accept him and make his transition to our side as easy and comfortable as possible, you and James and Peter spat insults and doubted his loyalty outright and tried your damnedest to make his life a living hell. And when, for the first time in eight years, I harshly reprimanded you for it, you took it as a personal insult and accused me of caring more about Snape than I did about you.

You didn't speak to me for hours that day.

And that was just the beginning, because that one stupid quarrel led to a string of other stupid quarrels over equally stupid things like leaving the bedroom light on when you left the flat and why I couldn't just sit still at dinner parties and enjoy a meal without getting up every three seconds to tend to guests and how you never came home at a decent hour because, until the Potters went into hiding, you and James were wrapped up in Muggle poker tournaments and Quidditch games and anything that would take your mind off the war, even for a moment.

And then finally it all fell apart.

It was October. You were accusing Snape of spying for Voldemort, just like always, and I told you that it was bullshit and that Snape was loyal to the Order and how dare you hold onto this stupid grudge for so long, and you glared at me for what felt like an eternity and said, "You're as bad as him, you fucking monster, why don't you go howl at the moon instead of at me?" And I hit you and cursed and cried harder than I'd ever cried before, and then I stormed out and went to stay with Frank and Alice and little Neville because I couldn't stand the sight of you.

I was gone for three weeks, and that was enough time for me to convince myself that I didn't miss you and didn't need you, enough time for Voldemort to kill James and Lily and be destroyed by your tiny godson Harry, enough time for me to hear that you'd murdered Peter and had been accused of being Voldemort's spy and had been carried off to Azkaban, laughing like a madman.

The funny thing was, I hated you so much then that I could actually believe you'd done it all.

***

It just so happened that you hadn't done any of it.

But I wish you had.

Or, at least, I wish you'd killed Peter, because of what he did to James and Lily and Harry, and because he escaped when you finally did try to kill him, and because he was to blame for Harry having to watch a boy die and for Voldemort's return and for the God awful war that we all knew was coming and for the fact that I had to wait thirteen years to tell you how sorry I was for everything I said and did.

But Albus Dumbledore was and always has been and always will be a meddling old fool, and he told you to "Lie low at Lupin's" knowing full well that, awkward as it might be, it would still be the best thing for us, because so much had gone unsaid.

It was strange having you back at first. I didn't know what to say or do, and neither did you, and you screamed in your sleep and I was crying all the time and finally...finally, you just looked at me from across the table at breakfast one morning and said, "I never meant to hurt you."

And I told you I knew it, and I should have told you a lot of other things, too, like how much I'd lied to myself just so that one day I might be able to let you go and how I never really had let you go and that I loved you just as much as ever and probably a little more desperately than I ever had and how when you looked in the mirror and said "I look like shit" that it was only partly true, because I could still see the old Sirius somewhere under the hair and the dirt and the frighteningly gaunt frame.

But I didn't say any of that.

I just grabbed your hand and squeezed and tried to meet your eyes but got a little scared and ended up staring at a toast crumb on your collar and said to you, "I'm sorry, too." I think you knew what I meant, because you always seemed to hear the things I wasn't saying, but I couldn't be sure because you changed...God, you'd changed so damn much, and I didn't know how to handle that or how to handle you or....

What could I do, really, but this?

And so we just sat there, breathing in, breathing out, still refusing to really look at one another, probably because we were afraid of what we might find.

And that...just that...was, for the time being, okay.

***

It just so happened that when the Order moved into Grimmauld Place, I was given the bedroom opposite yours. Dumbledore thought it best, of course, because who knew you better than I? Who could handle your screams in the night and wake you and tell you that all of it was gone and over and done with, that everything was alright, and would you have believed anyone else when they told you that, would you have been able to look at them and feel that everything, in fact, was alright?

Did you ever believe me when I told you that? Because God knows it wasn't the truth, nothing was ever going to be alright, not with Voldemort and his Death Eaters running loose and making life hell for the rest of us again, but I could at least hope that my presence offered you comfort of some kind, as much as you needed, and I know you needed it a lot, probably more than any of us.

The dreams had gotten better by that point. You were still screaming in your sleep, but it was never as often and never as loud and never as horrible as it had been when you'd first come to stay with me, and that was somewhat reassuring. After all you'd been through, I couldn't stand the thought of you suffering for another second, although I knew you did suffer still, and I wished like hell I'd never have to leave you and always felt a surge of resentment toward Dumbledore anytime he would send me on a mission for the Order.

But then one night, it was me screaming in my sleep, although I can't remember doing so, obviously, and can't for the life of me remember what caused it, but I do remember your hands on my face and your voice whispering to me, "It's only a dream, Remus, only a dream." When I finally awoke, I felt so comforted, so relieved to see your face, just the way I hoped you felt on nights when I did the same for you.

I wanted to say things to you like "Don't leave me!" and "I need you!" and, most of all, "I love you so much, Sirius! Love you, love you, love you...." And as usual, I didn't say any of those things at all.

But of course, like always, I didn't have to say a damn thing for you to understand everything I felt, because you understood it all; I knew that the moment I felt the soft press of your lips against my forehead, and I think I did say something then, something like "That feels nice" or something just as stupid and trivial, something that never could have conveyed to you how nice it really did feel.

I didn't even realize your clothes were off until you started to peel mine away, and I thought of clutching your hands and telling you to stop, because in all the time we'd been together since that summer we hadn't even acknowledged our feelings--former, present, or otherwise--for one another. But I didn't stop you, and you bared my skin--inch by inch, button by button--and I closed my eyes and thought to myself My God, he's going too slow, but this was your moment to take what you needed, and I gave you my silent consent and gave any modicum of power I might've possessed over to you.

"Are you alright?" you asked me, and I had to laugh because you'd waited until you had me fully undressed to ask the question, so I did laugh and I said, "Yes, never better."

I swear to God, it was the fucking truth.

When you finally kissed me for real, I thought my heart was going to either explode inside my chest or rise up so far in my throat that you'd be able to taste it on the tip of your tongue. I'd missed that so much, just kissing you like that, kissing you at all, and somehow I mustered enough soundness of mind to calculate in my head that it had been fourteen years, one month and twenty-six days since the last time I'd kissed you.

But the last time hadn't been like this. That one had been a quick, chaste peck on my way out the door, and this was anything but quick or chaste. Your hands were cold and frail against my skin, but through them I could feel your determination or your pleading or whatever the hell it was, and it made me love you and want you and need to feel you--really feel you--more than I ever thought possible.

You made love to me that night for what felt like hours, and you were the furthest thing imaginable from gentle. It was too hard and too fast, and I cried out more than once because it hurt like hell, but I needed it to; I think we both did. And it didn't matter, anyway, because when you were inside me it felt like you'd never left, and I wanted to just hold you right there like that for as long as I could and forget about Voldemort and the war and my missions, no matter how selfish it might've been.

Just like old times, though, I came before you did, and I felt like my entire soul might've poured out of my body in that moment, and when the feeling had dissipated a little I opened my eyes and gazed up at you, and I swear to God you'd never looked so beautiful. Your eyes were half-closed, and your lips were parted, and your brow was furrowed, and when you came, a single bead of sweat wound its way down your cheek, and it was all I could do to resist the urge to lift up and lick it away.

I was sated. Hell, I was more than sated. I was finally rid of so many things like loneliness and anger and fear and guilt, and that's the thing that felt best of all, I think.

You laid there with your head on my chest, letting me stroke your hair, for so long that I thought you'd fallen asleep, but I was proven wrong when I heard you sniffle and ask me in a barely audible whisper, "Do you love me, Remus?" and I was too covered in sweat to feel the tears against my skin, but I knew you were crying, and I wanted to cry, too, because you sounded like you honestly did not know the truth.

"Yes, of course I love you," I answered, and you turned your eyes up toward me and rested your chin against my breast bone. You didn't say anything just then, but there was a small smile playing on your lips, and you looked so much like your seventeen-year-old self, before Voldemort, before the either war, before Azkaban.

And when you laid your head back down and whispered, "I love you so much, Remus," I thought we truly did have an eternity to say things like that to each other.

But eternities, it seems, aren't as long as they used to be.

***

It just so happened that your godson hated Severus Snape as much as you ever did. So, when Dumbledore requested that Snape teach Harry to become an Occlumens, it was only natural that Harry would be stubborn and Snape would be cruel and Harry would retaliate by not doing a damn thing Snape asked him to.

Like closing his mind.

He let Voldemort get to him through you because, whether you realized it or not, there was nobody in the world Harry cared for more than you. Not Ron. Not Hermione. You. You were his link to the parents he never knew, his escape from the guardians who'd made him suffer for so long, the first person to really let him know how much you cared for him. Voldemort knew all of that, thanks to that damned house elf you were so foolish to treat so cruelly, and used the information to lure Harry to the Department of Mysteries.

And like the impetuous rebel you always were, you had to go after him, despite Dumbledore's orders, despite my desperate pleas that you stay behind, but it wasn't as if we could control you. And the rest of the Order went, too, of course, for Harry's sake.

And you, you stupid fucking impetuous rebel idiot...you had to go and get yourself killed.

I watched in absolute horror as the Veil of Mysteries swallowed you whole like some unforgiving serpent might swallow a defenseless mouse, and I knew at that very moment that something inside me had died, too. The part of my soul that you had always occupied suffered whatever terrible fate lay beyond the veil, and it was all I could do to try to ignore it long enough to grab Harry's arm, to stop him from going after you, to say to him, "There's nothing you can do, Harry...nothing.... He's gone...."

I didn't want to believe my own words, but I knew how true they were. You were gone; I could feel it or, what I mean to say is, I couldn't feel you anymore, and that hurt more than anything I'd ever known, more than monthly transformations or the pain of Crucio or thirteen years of living without you or making love to you too hard and too fast and hoping that the more it hurt, the less you would.

For days, I stayed locked up in your old room at Grimmauld Place, looking through photographs and lying face down on your pillows so I wouldn't forget the way you smelled and giving my hands free reign over my body, hoping like hell that if I touched myself long enough I'd forget that the hands were mine and they would start to feel like yours, but they never did, and eventually I had to come out of hiding.

Dumbledore had summoned me.

No, hell, "summoned" isn't really the appropriate term, because in all actuality the man had all but threatened my life if I didn't come to speak with him immediately, not that I would've minded if he had ended my life then and there, but I did feel as if I owed him something.

And so I went, and it was hell. Dumbledore called me selfish, and I knew I was selfish but I felt as though I had every right to be and I told him that, and I told him that he had no business entrusting Snape with Harry's Occlumency lessons and that he should never have kept you locked up in Grimmauld Place, and I cursed at him and broke things and made a tremendous mess of his office and of myself.

"Harry reacted this very same way," he told me, like it was the most startling coincidence in the universe, and I asked him, "Well, how the hell else would you expect him to react?" and I told him how none of this was fair and how much I loved you and how I didn't know if I could go on fighting without you there.

"Of course you can," he said. "Even if you can't see him, Sirius is with you still."

It was all I could do to keep myself from striking him, because I knew you weren't there, and that's why I couldn't feel you, and I picked up an enchanted mirror from his cabinet and hurled it against the wall and watched it break into a million tiny pieces that danced in the light pouring in from the window.

And then, I fell to my knees and began to weep, lifting wet, angry eyes to Dumbledore's face, and I said to him through gritted teeth, "I despise you."

He looked so weak and weary then, and I almost regretted being so cruel...almost. He moved forward and knelt on the floor beside me and placed one hand upon my shoulder and said softly to me, "You're quarrel is not with me, Remus. I was never the master of Sirius Black's fate."

And I cried even harder then.

Because it just so happens that I never believed in fate.

Just happenstance.