The Survivors

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was ghostly that summer, and quiet. Even when the sun shone, as it sometimes did in that gloomy part of London, the walls seemed to run like sheets of rainwater from the ceilings to the floors, and Harry drifted by them listlessly.

Remus Lupin was there in that house, but he was hardly company. Harry saw him at meals - they had breakfast and supper together - and during lessons, but the only thing they talked about was Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Not Sirius. Never Sirius.

Occasionally, Harry would pass the parlor and, glancing in, see Lupin seated by the ornate fireplace, a book across his lap. On such occasions Harry often lingered in the doorway and waited, but Lupin never look up from his book. A burn would creep up Harry's body, from his toes to his throat, and he would dig his nails into his palms, and hate Lupin for his silence during meals, for his patience during lessons, for not talking about Sirius - for not once talking about Sirius, even though he'd loved him, even though it was Harry's fault he'd died - and for looking so damn fragile sitting there in the firelight, with the grey like frost in his hair, and his hands like withered leaves.

In a way, Harry thought once, as he sat at the kitchen table, morosely stirring his porridge while across from him, Lupin sipped his coffee and read The Daily Prophet, Sirius was the more tangible presence. He was the thing they talked around, walked around - Harry never went into the rooms Sirius had occupied, and he thought Lupin avoided them, too - but who dominated their thoughts. It was as though he were something that could be stumbled into or tripped over.

Harry knew that Lupin thought about Sirius. Sometimes when Harry spied him in the parlor, Lupin would stare for a long time at one page, his hand resting limply at his side or curled around a tea mug. The firelight would flicker along his long nose, downcast lashes, and frowning lips and it would seem to Harry that his former professor was not looking at words printed on a page, but at something deep within himself.

Harry hated Lupin even more in those moments, because he seemed so distant for so long that he had to have found some whisper of Sirius. Or at any rate some memory that was more real and more appealing than ghostly Grimmauld Place.

When Harry sorted through the few memories he had of his godfather, he ran headlong into veils and cold iron bars.

_____

"There's a spell I want to learn," Harry said sharply, one rainy afternoon after he'd been in Grimmauld Place for a little more than a week.

Lupin, who had been flipping through a leather-bound tome, looked at him in surprise. "I was going to teach you a variation of the Repelling Charm we did the other day," he said. "It's a little more effective, and requires only--"

"No, I've found a spell I want to learn," Harry cut in. "You might not know it, but I think it would be useful to know. It's a spell that stops something in midair. Like if someone throws something at you, or if--" He stumbled on the words, and he had to curl his hands into fists to keep them from trembling. He imagined he was holding knives. "--If someone's falling," he said tightly. He met Lupin's wary glance and held it. "Dumbledore used it to catch me once, when I fell off my broom. At a Quidditch match. You were there, I think. Or maybe you were - you know - recovering. Anyway, I think it would be useful for me to know. If you can teach it to me. If you know it."

In the watery light from the window, the wrinkles at the corners of Lupin's eyes and mouth seemed to deepen. "I know the spell," he said at length, quietly. He closed the book, and stepped away from the desk, toward Harry. "The incantation and wand movements are easy enough. If you can master Wingardium Leviosa you can master them. The only difficulty lies in maintaining concentration, particularly with heavier objects. Which makes it a difficult spell to use effectively in combat, when things happen very quickly and - unexpectedly."

He stood before Harry, his arms limp at his sides, the corners of his mouth turned downward. He did not appear to be angry, only tired and regretful. Harry's legs trembled as though they wanted him to be moving backward, but he held himself stiffly in place, and continued to face Lupin.

"Hold up your wand," Lupin said. "Hold it up," he said again calmly when Harry did not move.

Harry complied, though his limbs felt wooden.

"Now, the wand movement," Lupin began, drawing back his arm. "It's a long, sweeping motion, that ends with a quick flick of the wrist, like this." He demonstrated, but Harry was only dimly aware of the movement. The edges of his vision had dimmed, and all he was really aware of was Lupin's pale, lined face, and his steady voice.

And the burn that had begun where it always did, at his heels, and was gnawing its way up him, stretching for his heart. He breathed deeply, and shook his head, but his vision would not clear. Lupin had done it so quickly, and with such casual ease. It had barely taken two seconds. Surely he'd had time to do that during the fight. It had taken Sirius an age to fall.

"Harry," Lupin said, and for the first time there was a faint note of impatience in his tone.

Startled, Harry drew his arm back as Lupin had done.

"The spell only affects objects already in motion," Lupin said, moving round to stand just behind Harry's shoulder. "We'll practice a few times without a prop. Then, when I think you've got it, I'll find something we can practice with. Something not so breakable."

It was the last sentence that did it. Uttered lightly, almost casually, it fanned the flames in Harry, sent them roaring through all his veins and arteries, scorching as they went. He dropped his arm, and whirled to face Lupin, opened his mouth only to have the words he wanted to say cram painfully in his throat.

"Harry," Lupin said, his voice still soft, but clear above the tumult, "if you want to blame me, blame me. You have the right. I would understand it if you did."

He wanted to hurt Lupin. He could not punish Sirius for recklessly throwing his life away; he could not punish Dumbledore for allowing it to happen because even fallen from his pedestal, Dumbledore was a figure somehow larger than life. But Lupin was human, and alive, and flawed, and capable of being hurt.

But the words would not come. Harry struggled with them, but the best he could manage was a strangled sort of sound that raked his throat painfully. He could not do it, so he shook his head, shouldered past Lupin, and ran out into the corridor, his face flaming, his insides a charred wreck.

Harry went to his room - the one he'd shared with Ron last summer - and lay down on his bed, on top of the covers, and remained there, gazing blindly at the window, while the afternoon staggered into night. The softening hiss of the rain as it tapered off seemed miles distant. Perhaps it was miles distant, Harry thought. The bed in which he lay had no curtains, but it seemed as though he'd drawn an invisible veil around himself, one that muffled everything except his pain.

And the knock on his door, which came some time after the sky had gone completely black and the rain had finally stopped. Harry did not answer it, but Lupin entered anyway, and began to speak before Harry could decide whether he was secretly glad or wished he could dissolve.

"I understand," Lupin said, and Harry felt the invisible veil that hung over him ripple with the words. "You feel responsible, so you want someone to blame you, but no one will. Fine. I do blame you, at least in part. Bellatrix is the one who killed him. Voldemort lured both of you to the Department of Mysteries. Dumbledore should have told you the truth. Sirius--" Even through his haze, Harry heard the way Lupin's voice faltered, as though his throat had closed in an attempt to keep the word from escaping. "--Sirius was reckless. I should have taken better care of him. I should not have left him alone in this house for so long. Snape taunted him. Kreacher lied. And you could have exercised better judgment. I do hold you partly accountable. I don't want to, but I do.

"But Harry," Lupin went on in a gentler tone, "you did what you did because you loved him. You did what you did because you honestly believed he was in danger, and couldn't abandon him. You loved him. You still love him. We both do. You acted out of love and...there's no shame in that."

Harry looked up, finally. In the darkened room, Lupin was barely visible, but Harry sensed him standing beside the bed, looking down at him gravely. "I'm sorry," Harry whispered. He wondered when the fire had gone out; he could not remember it, but it must have because he felt cold now, and hollowed.

He felt the mattress dip as Lupin sat down beside him. For a moment he was afraid that he would cry, but no tears came, and he realized that they had all burned away with his anger, leaving only a raw ache in his chest and throat. "I'm sorry," he whispered again.

"I know," Lupin said.

"If I'd known," Harry began, but stopped himself. If he had known better, if he had done just one thing differently, Sirius might still be alive. There was no need to tell Lupin that. Instead, he said, "I hate it that he probably never knew what really happened. How would he know about the vision Voldemort sent me? He must've known it was trick, but he wouldn't have known I thought he was in danger. And I didn't even try to call him with the mirror. I forgot about it. He didn't know I went there to save him. I wish he knew."

"There are things I wish he knew, too," Remus said. He was quiet again, and Harry was afraid that he had said all that he was willing to say. But after a long moment, he spoke again. "There's so much I never... I should have learned, after I got him back from Azkaban. You may have noticed, Harry, I'm not the most open of men. But I should have told him everything, as soon as I could. If there were a way to tell him now, I would. I swear I would."

I'd have given him a real hug, thought Harry. I'd have held on, and not let go. If he were here now, I'd throw my arms around him.

They remained in the darkness together for a long while, and there were no more words. There were promises nevertheless, and fervent unspoken wishes that seeped through their grief and went out into the night. Harry could not see into Lupin's heart, but within his own, the chasm into which Sirius had fallen began to mend itself that night. The edges softened and began to move, slowly but surely, together.

03/15/05