The Merits of Self-Sacrifice
(or, When We Last Met by the Lake)

 

All things on earth point home in old October: sailors to sea,
travelers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and
the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken.

~ Thomas Wolfe

 

 

 

Stagnant clumps of dead leaves float at the edge of the lake, heavy but not quite willing to sink.  Remus imagines he can hear the gurgle of the drowning leaves, the displacement of water as a first year skips a stone across the lake’s dappled surface.  He imagines he can feel the cold wind pressing between the naked arms of trees.  With only four days until the full moon, maybe he really can.  He winds his scarf around his neck again, tighter this time.

 

There are three essays Remus should be writing right now, instead of waiting here, watching the sun set.  He should be sitting at his customary table in the library — the one in the back, hidden behind the oldest, mustiest books; the one Sirius had carved into in April of last year, despite Remus’s protests.  Remus should be there, running his finger along the rough letters, P loves M, pretending to be horrified when really he’s delighted.

 

It has been six months since they kissed, and five since betrayal bloomed with May’s flowers.  Six months since waking with the feel of Sirius against him, fingers pressing into the bumps of his spine, the whisper of that’s your coccyx more like a prayer than a lesson in anatomy.  Five since waking with the scent of blood in his nostrils and an insufficient apology in his ears.

 

Remus unclenches his fingers and shakes out the stiffness.

 

 “Aren’t you cold?”

 

He isn’t entirely startled by the voice.  In the periphery of his awareness, he had heard the footsteps, the soft inhaleexhaleinhale of someone slowly approaching.  In the crisp air, the scent is unmistakable.  “Hello, Regulus.”

 

The boy settles to Remus’s right beneath the tree and sighs, running a hand through his dark hair.  It is one trait among many that both of the Black boys share — though it is difficult to say which of the two is more determined not to notice.

 

“Lupin,” Regulus says by way of acknowledgement, but there is a tinge of warmth at the fringe of his greeting.  Straightening his shoulders, Regulus uses one hand to pluck at the grass and another drops hesitantly over Remus’s own hand.  The gesture shocks Remus in its kindness.  “He talked to me today, if you can believe it,” says Regulus suddenly, his face going a little pink.  “He’s furious, and absolutely mad, and he called you names, and called himself names, and rounded the whole thing out by calling me names.”  His laugh shakes a little, but he tightens his grip.

 

Remus knows he should say something, but he’s too breathless with the connection here, this line of contact between himself and Sirius.  He opens his mouth, and tries to speak, but he can’t find the words, and Regulus deflates.

 

“He’s in love with you,” Regulus says evenly, sliding his hand into his pocket, the other still picking furiously at the grass.  “You know that, don’t you?”

 

It is almost an accusation, but Regulus holds back.  He succeeded where Sirius failed — in learning restraint (as well as manners, French, and how to behave properly among guests).  Of course, Sirius has succeeded over him in everything else.

                                                       

“Yes, he is,” Remus says, and he thinks that maybe he finally believes it.

 

“And you’re in love with him?”

 

“Yes.”  This has never been in question.  Whether Remus hates Sirius, whether he will ever forgive him, these are the things he didn’t know.  But he loves him, of course he does, even if he refuses to speak to him.

 

The last purplish lights of day are blurring into blackness, and the moon hangs imperfect and incomplete in the sky.  Remus watches it and feels its tug in his bones.  It is like the feeling he got when Sirius kissed him, the same instinctive alignment of his body, the cogs working together in something that very well might be cohesion.  It terrifies Remus.

 

He pushes the thought away, for now, and looks back at Regulus.  There is a refined grace in the boy’s features that Sirius doesn’t have, something quiet and pretty in contrast to his brother’s strong handsomeness. A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted, thinks Remus.  It seems appropriate.  The entire situation is quite Shakespearean, in its own way.

 

Regulus looks down, long lashes very black against his pale skin.  “If I were to kiss you now, what would you do?”  Regulus lets his hand drop back onto Remus’s, but the other boy jerks away with a sudden, snappish movement.  Remus clutches the fraying end of his scarf.

 

“Look, Regulus, I—”

 

“I know,” the younger interrupts, sharply.  “I’m not stupid.  All you see in me is him.  And all I see in you is him.”  The heir to the Black inheritance rolls his eyes, and Remus sees the similarities again.  “He’s surrounding us completely, which is crazy because it’s not like he’s that great anyway.  I mean, he’s thoughtless, and he’s callous, and he rebels just because he feels like it.”  Regulus grins, a little wicked, enjoying the taste of the insults.

 

“He doesn’t give a thought for anyone else most of the time,” Remus adds, a small smile creeping onto his face.

 

Regulus nods.  “He’s crude, and have you seen him eat?  At dinner, he was like an infant.  He wouldn’t even use a fork.  He just shoves it all in his mouth with his hands.”  Regulus pantomimes this for Remus’s benefit, puffing up his cheeks and making gobbling noises as his puts his hands to his mouth.

 

This makes Remus laugh, because he knows exactly what Regulus is talking about.  “That’s right,” he says.  “That’s exactly right.  And he doesn’t show an ounce of respect for any of my books.  He dropped my copy of Julius Caesar in the toilet once!  Can you imagine?”

 

“His first summer home from Hogwarts, he blasted my teddy bear’s head halfway off,” confides Regulus, looking thoroughly distressed.  “Said it was going to be a gift for Nearly Headless Nick.”

 

Covering his face with his hands, Remus snorts.  “Obviously, he has poor taste.  And he doesn’t give one whit about rules.  Does he even realize that there’s a restriction on the use of underage magic?”  With a laugh, Remus says, “Probably not.”

 

“But he’s my brother,” Regulus says suddenly, and Remus’s chuckles are cut short.  “He’s my brother, and you’re in love with him.  Somehow he managed to trick us into caring.”

 

A thoughtful look passes Remus’s face, and he says, with some hesitation, “Do you know how I knew I loved him?”

 

Regulus doesn’t want to hear.  He knows he doesn’t.  But he also knows that Remus wants to say, so he nods, allowing the other boy to continue.

 

“It was my fourteenth birthday, and I walked into the common room, and, not at all to my surprise, everyone shouted ‘Surprise!’  My friends had planned a party for me, but didn’t take into account the fact that I’m not exactly a huge fan of parties.”  The smile was audible.  “Or maybe they did take that into account, before deciding to disregard it.  In any case, I wanted to run away to the dormitory and hide under my covers.  But James caught me by the sleeve before I had the chance and said, ‘Will you go get that great prat?’ (by which I assumed he meant Sirius) ‘He’s been in the kitchens all day, and he’s going to miss the party.’”

 

“Why would he do that?”

 

“I suppose he realized I was completely uncomfortable and was offering me a momentary out.  James is good like that.  I know you — and the Slytherins — don’t really like him, but, well, he’s saved my life.  He’s the person I know I can always trust.”

 

Giving himself a shake, Remus resumes his story:  “Anyway, I go to the kitchens to get ‘that great prat,’ and what should I see when I walk through the door but Sirius covered head to toe in chocolate frosting and cake batter, surrounded by a swarm of nervous house elves.”  The moment requires a pause, both for dramatic storytelling, as well as for Remus to regain his composure.  The memory is surprisingly fresh.  “He’d tried to bake me a cake,” he says, wistful.  “He’d failed utterly, but Mr. Sirius ‘Never Cooked a Day in his Life’ Black, had tried to bake me a cake.  And a chocolate one at that.  Can you believe—?”

 

“You’re an idiot,” Regulus snaps, and the smile vanishes from Remus’s face.

 

“What?”

 

“You.  Are.  An.  Idiot.”  His tone has gone cold.  “Sirius doesn’t want to be my brother any more, and I don’t know that I want to be his either.  We’re beyond help, the two of us.  But you!  You’re both in love, and you both want to be together, so why the hell aren’t you?”

 

“You don’t know what happened.”

 

“Let me guess:  He was stupid — he was himself.  Does it really matter?”

“Of course it—”

 

“Don’t be stupid, Remus.”  It is the first time in all these weeks that Regulus has used his given name.  “You’re hurting him just as much now as he hurt you.  And,” Regulus’s voice catches, “you’re hurting me in the process.  Do you see that?”

 

 

“Yes.”

 

It is time for Remus to make his rounds with Lily.  He feels in his stomach, his firmly wound internal clock.  He rises to leave.  “I have to go,” he excuses.  He wants to say, Thank you, Regulus, but he can’t bring himself to do it.  He has a callous streak, too, it seems.

 

“I’m not going to be here tomorrow,” Regulus says, remaining on the ground, leaning against the tree trunk.

 

Remus stares at Regulus — the lines of his face are familiar and geometric, a straight jaw and aquiline nose, the aristocratic air which he wears like a scarf — and realizes that almost is not enough.

 

“Don’t worry,” Remus says, “neither will I.”

 

He turns and begins to walk back to Hogwarts, the moon not quite full in the sky behind him.

Fin.