Reading Between the Lines

I can't tell exactly when it started. It's just one of those things that you don't know is happening until it already has and by then it's too late to try to think it through.

For sometime it was my best kept secret; I didn't even know about its existence. But now that I do I still can't tell anyone - not even Hermione. She wouldn't understand, just the way I don't understand. I've learnt to simply enjoy it.

If you really must know when it started I guess it was during last year's summer holiday, whilst there was all that confusion at the headquarters. He wasn't even supposed to be there - he was meant to be doing some top secret work for Dumbledore, but it was cancelled when we arrived. The Order agreed we should have more protection than just Sirius, who, God knows, needed more company. Who could be better to do this job than his best friend, and one of the men Dumbledore trusts the most?

It was alright by me. Sure, he had been my teacher, but it wasn't that awkward to be living in the same house as a former teacher, especially because he would have to leave for long periods of time on Order business, so we'd hardly see him. Honestly, although he was a great teacher, I never understood all the fuss about him - Professor Flitwick was my favourite teacher at Hogwarts, so Professor Lupin was just this elder guy who didn't even remember my name. He tried to disguise it, but I realized he stuttered when he shook my hand the day we arrived at Grimmauld Place. Mum saved him by saying, "You remember Ginny, my youngest?", and he exclaimed that of course he did, how could he forget? I had been one of his best students.

Liar. If anything, I had been his quietest student; my second year was spent trying to recover from my first. Of course I had wanted to learn Defence Against the Dark Arts, because I never want to be subjugated by dark magic again. But Cornish Pixies and all the other creatures we learn in second year are not particularly dangerous; neither could they cast an Unforgivable Curse on me, so I really didn't bother.

Thus that day when I saw his embarrassed smile I really didn't care.

It was afterwards I discovered I liked the way he treated me; exactly the same as he treated my brothers. When you are the youngest girl in a house full of secrets and full of people talking about dangerous things your mother is sure you shouldn't know about, you appreciate the lack of distinction.

Maybe that was when it started. When the days started passing and he always treated me with respect and honesty. It was a good change, since life at Grimmauld Place had the potential to be lonely. There were the twins, who never needed any other company but each other; Hermione and Ron, who wouldn't usually let me stay with them; Mum, busy as ever, and bossier than ever, treating all her children like precious china that would break if they listened to even a single piece of information; Sirius and Remus, however, were never too busy with each other so they couldn't talk to me like an equal. Sirius was kind of boring - I used to wish he would stop talking about the past and Harry all the time. But then one day, right after lunch, we were sitting in the kitchen listening to Sirius's memories about his Hogwarts days and Lupin whispered, with a rare playful smile, "You know, I think he's happiest when he's sitting here with us telling all his stories."

From that moment on, I was happiest at those moments too. I realized now that Lupin knew all those stories by heart, but would still sit and listen to his friend carefully, as though it was the first time he was hearing them. Sirius had no other time to live in but his past; there lay the best times of his life, if not the only good times he ever had.

I felt for them, and, everyday after lunch, I would laugh with them at all those crazy adventures they had gone through. These were the only couple of hours that mum would let us sit doing nothing, "There's too much work to do in this house!" she would exclaim to get us out of there, and we knew she was right.

Of course everything changed after Harry arrived. I don't think anyone expected his tantrums, and I got very bored and upset by them, but as Sirius would say when Harry was not listening, "The boy has a lot to be angry about."

I didn't agree. Sure I could imagine it wasn't easy to be Harry, but everyone adored him. Mum couldn't get enough of him; you'd think he was one of her sons. I don't think Dad would have minded if we brought Harry home and asked to adopt him. He was the main concern of pretty much everyone in the Order - except for Snape, I don't know if he cared enough - and most importantly, he now had Sirius and Lupin, both going out of their way to make Harry feel comfortable, even if he couldn't see it.

And I had lost the happiest time of my day.

I'm not someone who complains a lot, so I can say I still had some good times there. Every time Tonks came by for dinner I had fun and just being around all those people made me content.

At the end of the holidays we were all taken to the station to catch the train. Along with Fred and George, I was escorted there by Lupin. Fortunately, the twins were oblivious to anything but their plans for that year at Hogwarts, giving me a chance to enjoy my time with him.

But that day something very important happened. At the time, I didn't realize its importance, but I would soon enough. As we were arriving at the station, trying to keep the twins in sight, he asked, "Are you going to be alright?"

I thought it was a strange question because of his concerned look. He always looked grave, and somewhat tired, but he never looked that concerned at a simple question like that.

I told him there was nothing to worry about, but he continued, "After Harry arrived, we all changed our priorities. But I want you to know I missed those few hours after lunchtime."

I smiled. Later he'd tell me I glowed at his statement, so he knew I had missed those hours too, and that made him say, "If you should ever want to talk, you can always write me."

I smiled again, but soon dismissed it. I couldn't see why I would feel the need to write to him, but I appreciated the gesture. He always has a way of reading our anxieties and our wishes in our eyes. He knew that at that moment I was feeling unappreciated; the youngest daughter who never gets a say in anything because no one thinks she could say something useful.

I knew I had friends though. I had Hermione, and I had my friends at school, and, well, I even had Michael Corner. I knew it would be alright, because things always turn out fine, no matter how bruised we end up. My first year taught me that.

So I didn't know why I would write him, and I knew he wouldn't really expect to get a letter from me.

However in no time at all I surprised him. I wrote him a long letter about my days at Hogwarts. I still don't know why, I just know I sat down one night and wrote him pages and pages about the beginning of term; how the teachers seemed tired, how Umbridge was awful, how boys were pathetic, how my friends were, how Harry was getting into trouble so soon; even that the food was still good and that my favourite dish hadn't been served once.

Soon it was my turn to be surprised, for I received his polite but warm answer, when he told me how tiring it was to be a teacher; how Umbridge was a foul, rule-fanatic who made his life harder with her decrees against werewolves; how he remembered my friends and was happy to hear about them; how I could get to the kitchens and ask the elf's for my favourite dish; how he wished Harry would keep his temper for his own good; and how boys were helpless, even when adults.

We wrote many other letters to each other while we still could. But soon Umbridge tightened her grip around Hogwarts, and it wasn't safe to write any longer. Not that our letters had been dangerous in any way - we never mentioned the Order, nor anything related to You-Know-Who being back. But we both agreed that it would seem highly suspicious, an ex-professor writing to a student he wasn't known to have any contact outside of school.

The fact I couldn't send the letters didn't stop me from writing, though. It had become a habit I wasn't keen on abandoning so soon. Two nights of the week I would lie in my bed with several pieces of parchment and my quill, and I would write a letter exactly as if I was going to send it - not saying anything suspicious, not mentioning anything that shouldn't be mentioned.

Soon I realized there were more things I was reluctant to write about. I had to contain my enthusiasm, afraid I would somehow write between the lines how much I missed him and his answers.

So that was when I knew. Yes, I may not know when it started, but I know the exact moment I realized it, and it happened at a cold November night, when I had to stop my wrist just before writing how I lived for those letters and for the hope he would read them someday.

For days I couldn't understand it. It's not like he had sent me any signs of interest, or treated me somehow differently. It was a strange, even confusing situation, where a young girl would write to an older man in no way related to her. And although he didn't treat me like a father, or older brother, he was almost a tutor - a warm, caring tutor, who didn't seem afraid of befriending his student.

I read all his letters again - and again, and then twice more, only to discover there was nothing there, nothing between the lines, nothing dubious or different; nothing that could feed my hopes.

I thought my letters were the same, but reading the ones I never sent, I could see they weren't. All my need and my hopes were there, not written in words, but crystal clear in the tone, in the choice of words, in what I was not saying.

I was afraid, but also excited when I finally saw him again. It was at that terrible time, when Dad was in St. Mungo's and we were all thinking about how death had been so close to us. So far, the war had been a distant thing, something that brought up our sense of adventure. But now, watching Dad lying down in a hospital bed, recovering from what could have been a fatal injury, war seemed too close, and too cruel.

I doubted I was a Gryffindor those days. I had passed by them, livid, afraid and ashamed of feeling delighted that he was near again. And when he tried to comfort a man who had just being bitten by a werewolf, it reminded me of his condition, something I hadn't even remembered all this time.

I knew it could never work. Actually, I knew that he would tell me that it could never work. He was older, he had been my teacher, and he was a werewolf. And what was I, besides a foolish girl, the youngest of seven children, someone who hadn't even had a taste of the world? I had been sheltered my entire life, and the first time I left the protection I had fallen under the control of a dark wizard. To make matters worse, now I was ready to fall under the control of a werewolf.

You see, I am a romantic at heart. I not only believe in true love, I believe the right person can take control of us, but will never use this control. It's difficult to explain, but it's pretty much as being a willing slave, like some poets say, muggle and wizard. You, as the one in love, are a willing slave, but the person who loves you would never master you, and would never truly recognize your condition, because he would be a willing slave too.

I thought that feeling like that was embarrassing enough, and nothing could be as bad as my situation but then, in an impulsive act, I gave him all my unsent letters as a Christmas present.

I regretted it almost in the same instant, because it seemed arrogant to think he would enjoy reading my boring, predictable letters; to give them as a present- just to give them! It was insane and silly, something a silly little girl would do.

But then, the same day we were going back to Hogwarts after the holidays, he gave me my Christmas present, which was letters, most of them answers to all the ones I had given him, and two that were dated the months we had supposedly spent not writing each other.

I couldn't read them just then, but I was thrilled beyond words, and I know it showed on my face. He smiled a gentle, kind smile, and sat with me and the twins on the Knight Bus. Fred and George were busy with their plans again, but he held me steady every time the bus almost sent me flying off my seat - and it happened several times. Needless to say, I enjoyed every single one of them.

But there was something about him, something I couldn't figure out. I asked him several times if anything was bothering him, but he just smiled and squeezed my hand gently, as if to comfort me.

But he was the one who needed comforting. His eyes showed he was beyond tired, and he seemed different. Almost if something was lacking. I wrote to him later about how I felt he was that afternoon, the way he seemed to have had something torn out of him brutally, a piece of him he could live without, but not without pain.

Only much later he would answer me, but by that time, he had had a part of him torn out.

I couldn't talk to him properly that fateful night at the Ministry, but I had a chance to hold his hand briefly, and look into his eyes. For a moment, it seemed to me that no one had ever experienced the pain he was feeling, but he was calm, worried about our safety before anything else.

There are some things I had picked up from between the lines of my Christmas present. One of the most remarkable things was how he kept himself under absolute control all the time, especially with crucial matters. It was the way he could live with the beast his condition would set free every month, by suffocating it as much as he could, and never letting it show.

This realization never caused me to pity him, but actually gave me fantasies that took my sleep away for countless nights. I could only imagine how it would feel for me to unleash the beast, to let it take control for a while. I would dream of being in his arms and having the power of releasing him from his control with a kiss, or a touch. Sometimes, by reading his controlled, calm letters, I was certain I could do it, and someday I would.

When I finally touched him that night, none of these thoughts crossed my mind. His best friend was dead, and he was hurting beyond words. But he still kept his composure, and he still put others before himself. I saw in his eyes that he needed to cry; he needed to shout, or even howl with the pain.

But he wouldn't, and I was grateful for that. I was sure I would shatter into pieces if I saw him break.

*~~*~~*~~*~~*

Maybe it was just my hope, but somewhere between the lines, I was sure that I read he knew I could have such power over him, and that he was scared. I was scared too, but I was ready to try it. I left the Ministry that night with a thirst for adventure and a desperate fear for my loved ones. I didn't want them to experience the horror I had felt that night, but I also didn't want to go through my life without ever feeling that alive again.

The thing is, I saw Lupin as a controlled danger. In my dreams, the beast I'd unleash was never a life menace, the way I know werewolves are; because in my dreams, he was never the beast, he was only the man I knew, with his dark side coming to life, inhaling deeply after being suffocated for so long.

He needed that gasp of air as much as I needed him, and he knew that. He, too, had read between the lines, but he didn't back away. He had never been a constant presence in my life before, but he sure was - as constant as he could be - a presence in The Burrow that summer.

He would eat every lunch and every dinner with us that he could. Mum would keep inviting him, and Dad seemed glad to have him around.

But he was never glad. It was obvious he was thankful, maybe even pleased, but he wasn't glad. Sirius was too alive in his memory, in all our memories; hanging over our heads every time we thought we could somehow forget.

We could never forget him, but I wish I could take all those shadows away from Lupin's eyes. In some ways, that's why I would always try and stay behind in the kitchen, sitting at the table right in front of him, ignoring my mother's insistent cries to leave him in peace.

"Now, don't bother him, I'm sure he has something to talk to your father about."

"She's not bothering me, Molly." He said it so gently and so forcefully I almost cried, "I enjoy talking to her."

But when we were alone, we wouldn't talk. How could we, for he was the man controlling the beast I had the power to release, and we were both afraid to be in this position. Sometimes he would squeeze my hand, but not so gently anymore, now with a need and a despair that made me fear for him.

"I miss our letters," he told me one day, "but I just can't get myself to write anything anymore."

I understood, and I told him so. But he wouldn't let go, and apologized profusely for not being more present, and not helping me cope with all that happened. He thought I needed guidance, he chose to believe that's what I wanted from him.

He still saw me as a student. Maybe as a dear student, someone he could someday regard as a friend, but a student nevertheless. He refused to see the sparks around the room when we were together; he refused to acknowledge that I loved him, and that he might be beginning to love me too. He would close his eyes to all that, and hide behind the pain he was feeling for his dead friend.

Still I don't blame him. Someday he will have to face it, and now it's too early to confront him with those feelings. I know I have to keep my calm and control my urge to release and tame the werewolf, because this would scare him. He's too comfortable in his denial. He had taught me boys are helpless, even when adults.

And so he is.