Cogito, Ergo Miser

I never liked James Potter. I didn't always hate him, not to begin with, but I never liked him. Something about him made me -- destructive. It was probably that damn expression he always wore, the smug smile that morphed into a mask of indifference whenever he spoke to me. Everything -- everything -- he ever wanted was handed to him on a golden platter. He never worked for anything the way I did -- he never had to! He smiled at the world and the world fell at his feet like a simpering dog, and Potter never thought anything of it. It wasn't bloody fair! We should have been equal, our parents moved in the same social circles, we went to the same primary school, how did anything he had give him the right --

Do you know what the worst part is? I didn't even hate him then. In fact, I rather agreed with him. He was better than me; in some intangible way that defies all attempts at reason, he was more deserving than I was. If I had been a prince and he a pauper, he would still have been my superior, and when he looked at me I know he saw my inadequacy and didn't give a damn one way or the other; nothing about me, nothing I ever did made an impact on his own personal world. All I wanted was for Potter to notice me, to look at me with some feeling -- any feeling! -- in his eyes, to admit that my existence mattered. He didn't care enough to grant me that.

For years I trailed after him, figuratively and literally, in the vain hope that he would eventually turn around and see me, until he met that insufferable Sirius Black. Black I hated immediately. Potter just didn't care, but Black was cruel. When he looked at me I was convinced he could read my mind, he seemed to always know what it was that I wanted, what I feared, and he made the most of that knowledge. Black and Potter were fast friends, and they were trouble from the start, but for the most part they left me alone. That was Potter's doing; I don't think he cared enough to bother me. I used to watch them, when I thought they couldn't see. I humiliated myself following them, spying on them, trying to figure out what the hell Potter saw in Black and how Black had managed to ingratiate his slimy self with Potter, because Black had what I wanted: he had Potter's attention.

When the letters for Hogwarts came I was thrilled, but I was also disappointed. I had hoped that at Hogwarts Potter and Black would be separated. In gleeful malevolence I imagined that with Black gone, Potter would be mine. I wanted him to myself in the way that a wealthy man might want a trophy wife: not for love, or any feeling at all, but because she is beautiful to look at and the possessing of her makes other men jealous. I wanted people to envy me.

Hope is a futile effort.

Not only did Black get in, but he and Potter were in the same house: Gryffindor. I was in Slytherin. I knew I would be, it came as no surprise, but for a moment, I would have traded anything in the world to be in Gryffindor with Potter. Anything to make him notice me. Anything to get him to look at me with something more than cool disinterest in his eyes. There in Slytherin, he had yet another excuse to ignore me. Or maybe . . . hate me? The Gryffindor/Slytherin feud was renowned, there was no known case of any members of the two houses getting along while still in school, let alone becoming friends. If I couldn't have the friendship that Black had with him, perhaps I could be the target of his loathing?

That day, I set myself the task of becoming James Potter's worst enemy. It wasn't difficult, he was a top student, but then so was I. We competed every day in lessons, and in Potions I was always superior to him. Thinking of it now, I can't be sure that I was ever really his enemy. I don't think he cared enough to grant me that status. It was Black I fought with, bloody Black, countering my every move, Potter's knight in shining armour. Potter wouldn't have bothered, but Black had a quick temper and as much as I hated him, he returned that animosity twice over and in full force, especially after I began my campaign against Potter. Black and Potter were a formidable team, I grant them that. Potter had a brilliant mind, and Black a devious one. I've sometimes wondered why Black ended up in Gryffindor and not in Slytherin. I usually give up about an hour into it, because it defies all logic.

The infamous duo of Black and Potter, however, soon became a foursome. Their dorm mates, the Pettigrew boy and Remus Lupin, who turned out to have talents for clever escapes and particularly nasty practical jokes, respectively, joined them about halfway through out first year. I knew how to deal with Black and Potter, because I had been dealing with them for seven years by then, but the four of them together were too much for any ten people. Even Professor Dumbledore despaired of disciplining them. I suspect they are entirely to blame for turning his once auburn hair the white that it is today.

I had made it my Personal Crusade to get James Potter to notice me, and notice me he did, or rather, they did, because for the next six and a half years, no house other than Slytherin suffered their imaginative and occasionally dangerous pranks. It was small things for the most part: arranging to have all the Slytherin laundry dyed scarlet and gold, sneaking into our common room and leaving dungbombs, charming our food to taste like vomit. By the end of the second term, I was sick of it and wishing to whatever unseen powers there were that Potter would forget about me. Then I would catch myself and pray fervently that he wouldn't.

This went on for some time. They played pranks on us, and I would skulk about him in the vague hope that he would see me, possibly even speak to me. It was always Black who saw me first, and he would scowl, suggest to Potter that they go elsewhere, and the next day I would find a dead snake in my sheets, or something else obvious and annoying.

Somewhere in all of this, I took notice of Remus Lupin. He was a slight boy, with a frame that kept promising growth but never quite came through. He had shaggy, ear-length hair in the lightest shade of golden auburn, so as to look like amber or clover honey, and hazel eyes to match. His eyes captured my attention as much as Potter did, but for another reason. Remus always had the most beautiful eyes, warm and sweet, eyes that drew you in and held you, eyes that glowed like fox-fire, eyes that looked to have been made of the finest filaments of the most precious metals woven together and given life. As a boy, his eyes had appeared huge and bright, underlined by dark circles that stood out abruptly against his skin. His skin was ethereally translucent, but far, far too pale, and he often looked sickly. I wondered if he had some horrible wasting disease. I wondered if there was a cure. I wondered if I could invent one. How strange that I only noticed him because Black was as fiercely protective of Remus as he was of Potter. Potter protected Pettigrew. I never did manage to figure out why, but it is a fact I filed away mentally under "Potter: Weaknesses."

I can't explain how it happened, but my obsession with Potter, though it did not diminish, gave way to a new-found fascination with Remus Lupin, and new trouble with Black. Black, damn him, who had some preternatural sense and knew what I was thinking. Black, who had made it his Personal Crusade to make my life a living hell by keeping from me everything that I wanted most -- more, taking it for himself. I hated Black more than I ever hated Potter. And though I envied him his friendship with Potter, I grew to hate him more for his friendship with Remus. To Potter, he was a brother. But when Black was with Remus, even to someone less observant than myself, it was evident: they never bothered to hide it. It was in their eyes when they greeted each other; it was in the way Black let his hand linger on Remus' arm slightly longer than friendship dictated; it was in every look, every touch, every unspoken word, communicated in their own private, silent, annoying language. They were, quite obviously, In Love.

I envied Black that love.

And of course Black, unwilling to tolerate my interest in Potter, just couldn't live with my interest in Remus. It was a cruel trap he and Peter arranged. And I . . . I suppose I fell into it willingly. It was only a snippet of conversation, flawlessly timed so that my straining ears would hear the whispers as they passed by me.

"They say the Willow hides a passageway --"

"Right, to get in you press the knob with a stick --"

I should have known better. I shouldn't have followed Remus in, but I always have been too curious by half for my own good, and I was practically dying to find out where he went to each month. If I had been thinking clearly, I would have taken note of the fact that he disappeared every full moon. If my obsessive desire for him had not blurred my judgement so -- had I not been more than half in love with him -- I would have noticed that it was a full moon that night.

When the time came, it was sheer curiosity that drove me out onto the grounds. I was eager to follow them, nearly sick with anticipation, but also with fear, and the pounding in my head kept pace with my racing heart. After dinner I stole out into the bushes and crouched in the spot I had selected earlier for its good view of the Whomping Willow. The wait was not long before a very hassled Madam Pomfrey appeared, with an exhausted Remus Lupin in tow. He looked terrible, and some distant part of me longed to run to him, to comfort him, but I was not in Slytherin for nothing, and my self-control held. When Remus disappeared into the dark opening hidden by the roots, I released a breath I had not realised I was holding. I waited silently until Madam Pomfrey had returned to the castle, and then followed Remus into the tunnel.

It was a long walk, and I wondered where it came out. I thought Hogsmeade, but there was not way to be sure, Hogwarts was so old, and the castle itself was filled with old passages that didn't go anywhere, just ended suddenly in walls that had been added in renovations or by accident when rooms had decided to move -- the tunnel could end anywhere. I was suddenly struck by the stupidity of my behaviour, and wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into. But Remus had come down here, so it had to go somewhere, and that knowledge and my own stubbornness drove me on. I had just begun to think about turning back when a light caught my eye. It must have been a lamp, because it had been sunset when I had entered the tunnel. I froze for a moment, unsure of what to do, and then I started forward. My heart leapt into my throat. I couldn't see properly, because the light had brightened and was glaring into my eyes, which had become accustomed to the dark. But there was a shape in the light, large, on four legs, it seemed, and just as I became aware of a growling noise a hand from behind grabbed me and, running, pulled me out of the tunnel. Still blinded from the light, I tripped several times, and always there was a hand to pull me up, to continue onward. When at last we emerged, stopping to recover our breath, I glared at my would-be-rescuer, and was shocked to see Potter, looking back at me through those damned spectacles, with -- at last! Some sort of emotion flickered in the depths of his eyes. Anger, relief, I didn't care. This was what I wanted, wasn't it? To get something out of James Potter? And now I had it. I was triumphant. I smiled.

He scowled. Turned around, muttering something about Black having to do something, and left me standing there.

I was shocked. So that was it, was it? Save my life, then just leave me there? Not a word? Something flickered in my mind, a small thought that triggered a chain reaction, and, having nothing else to do, I thought about it. James Potter had just . . . saved my life. Saved from . . . a monster. In the tunnel. I followed Remus in there. Remus. Monster. Oh, god, a monster! Remus was in there! I cast my eyes wildly around for a weapon of some sort, a branch or stones, but a cloud passing over the moon blocked out the silver light and left me blind in the darkness. Moonlight. Moon. Full moon. Remus. Monster. Full . . . werewolf. Remus was in the tunnel with a werewolf! And Potter had left him there! I couldn't fight a werewolf, not even a small one; they were vicious creatures who lusted after blood, mindless and evil. . . I had to get help; I had to go to Dumbledore. I ran as fast as I could back to the castle and to the Headmaster's office, only one thought in my mind: please let Remus be safe.

Later, when the truth came out, my hatred of James Potter and Sirius Black grew. I hated Potter for saving my life and not caring. He didn't even care enough to hate me properly, because after that scowl the most I ever got from him was a slight crease in his brow. I hated Black for sending me into that trap, and I hated him more for what he would have done to Remus. The fucking bastard didn't think about Remus at all, lovely, sweet Remus, who would have been sent to Azkaban at best if he had killed me, and it would have been Black's fault. I knew what Remus was now, and it repulsed me and intrigued me, and I wanted him more than ever. I could never bring myself to hate him. I hated myself for that weakness.

Years went by, a new threat arose, one who called himself Voldemort. He was powerful, and people were scared. I joined him. It seemed the thing to do. And I began to feel guilty. It was Dumbledore's fault, but that hardly matters now. The fact is, I betrayed my master for another. I am a traitor. I told Dumbledore all I knew, all I could discover. I knew I was suspected. I didn't care. What was there to live for? I was the servant of the most evil creature to walk upon the earth since the days when Hell and Heaven were not confined to the abstract above and below. I had betrayed him because I was weak and unable to control my emotions; I felt guilt. James Potter had taken no notice of me before, and I might as well have been non-existent after his marriage to Lily Evans. Remus Lupin was a monster, a subhuman, and even if I loved him, burned for him, lived and died for him, he was in love with Sirius Black. Fucking Black, who would make him a murderer. There was nothing left for me but death.

So I told the Dark Lord's most precious secret. I told Dumbledore that someone close to Potter was a rat. I didn't know who, but I may have suggested that it was Black. I owed him a debt I'm not sure he realised. I hoped it was Black. I prayed on my knees to all the gods of the world that it was Black, prayed to whatever evil had spawned my master in spite and malice and passionate hatred that it was Black, because I wanted to see Potter hurt. I wanted to see Potter proved wrong in his devotion. I wanted Potter to suffer for what he did to me. I wanted to see Black in Azkaban. I wanted to watch as the Dementors gave him the last kiss he'd ever have. I owed him pain.

But of course Potter went and got himself killed. What I had wanted, what I begged fate for every day, he took for himself. He always had to be first at everything. He died with unfinished business, never knowing Black's treachery. He didn't live to know he'd been wrong. He didn't have to live with the knowledge that his best friend, his brother, had sold him to the enemy; he didn't live to see Black escape.

Remus did, and for that I am sorry. It was never my intention to harm Remus Lupin. I loved him. I still love him. So Black has defied fate once again, escaping from the most guarded fortress in the world to come and claim once and for all the love that I have craved. He had Potter's friendship and then his life. He had Remus' friendship and then his heart. He will pay for that.

And now, in the cruellest twist of fate, it is I who have been proved wrong in my beliefs, and if I find that snivelling, flea-ridden rodent Pettigrew, I'll save them all a lot of trouble and kill him myself, because now I know that it is all his fault.