Sirius,
I went home. To Yorkshire. Do you remember Yorkshire,
when we were kids? You came all the time, and we'd muck around in
the fields and on the bridge by my house. I went there today. It
seemed so… empty, without you there with me. I know we only met up
a week or so ago, but it seems like months. As Romeo put it, 'Ah,
me! Sad hours seem long!' (I know you've never been much of a one
for Muggle literature, but I'm afraid I couldn't resist)
Anyway,
I went down there for an evening walk, just so I could think for a
bit. The moon is nearly full, of course, but for once it didn't
seem to matter. It wasn't evil, like it usually is, it was just…
there. Do you know what I mean? No, I don't suppose you do –
you're Sirius. But it was hanging there, and it was just a big
silver thing in the sky, that I could see by. And it didn't matter
whether it was full or half or new, because it was just a thing.
Like
the curtain was just a thing. A thing that took everything away from
me, and it wasn't the curtain that I hated. It was myself, for not
stopping it – for not stopping all of it. For not saving you. For
not saving James. For not saving Lily. Even for not saving Peter.
I
know what you're thinking, Sirius. Peter was a traitor – he
didn't deserve to be saved. Perhaps you're right. You always
were. But he was one of us before he was one of them, Sirius.
Still,
none of those things are why I hated myself the most. I hated myself
for not crying… not at James and Lily's funeral, not when we
thought Peter had died, not even when I saw you fall again, and
again, and again, in my nightmares.
I sat down with my back
against that little alcove in the bridge where we used to sit (I
can't fit in there any more; it was a lifetime ago), and I tried
for hours to make myself cry for you. The tears wouldn't come,
Sirius. But it must have been at least eleven when I looked up
again.
It was cloudy, but the stars were as bright as I've ever
seen them. Perhaps it was just exhaustion, but it seemed almost like
part of the sky was hanging over my head where there was a gap in the
clouds, and I wished with every part of me (no, not that part,
Sirius!) that it would fall on me and crush me. Stupid, I know. It
isn't as if anything would have come of it. Nonetheless, that's
what I wished.
And I looked for the Dog Star, and it wasn't
there. There was an emptiness inside of me that grew with every
minute I searched the laughing stars.
And still the tears weren't
coming.
So I probed at them, like pulling at a loose tooth. I
thought, you're gone.
Nothing.
I thought, you're never
coming back.
Nothing.
I thought, this is it, then. This is all
that is left of the Marauders. Just bookish old Moony, alone in the
dark.
I felt tears then, Sirius, and no doubt you'll think I'm
horribly selfish for it – I know I do. But I've thought about it,
and I'm pretty sure that I only needed the right prompt, because
seconds later I was crouched there, my coat clutched round me and my
eyes closed, curled up in a ball of misery and sobbing like a
child.
I thought I heard your voice, and it was when we first met
– both of us children, and both of us afraid, in our way. But then
it wasn't any more; you sounded fifteen or sixteen, like you were
calming me after one of my bad moons, and then you were twenty,
twenty-five, thirty…
And then you were gone.
You must think
I'm mad, Sirius. Reading that again, I'm not so sure I'm not.
You must be laughing at me, wherever you are. But that was what I
heard.
And after you had gone, or I thought you had, I just
crouched there for I don't know how long: I had no way of telling
the time. And then I thought, they'll be wondering where I am, and
I stood up and walked away from the bridge, wishing I hadn't
come.
I was most of the way home when a patch of bright air caught
my eye. I turned to look for a moment. And there he was. The Dog
Star, snapping at the heels of Orion.
Sirius, I know it sounds
stupid, but I would have stabbed myself with a hundred knives and put
twenty silver bullets through my skull if it would have let me switch
that Sirius for you.
And now it's time, and past it, that I
confessed something to you.
I loved you, Sirius. I know it sounds
gay, but I loved you.
Not like I love my other friends. Not like I
love Harry. Certainly not how I love Dora!
But I loved you,
because you were the last thread holding me to the person I used to
be, and now that thread, too, has broken, and I'm falling into the
abyss.
I know what you'd say if you were here, Sirius – why
don't I just talk straight? Well, I can't, because I can't
think straight. And I don't want to. If you read this, I hope,
it'll let you know what I mean.
I loved you, because you were a
Marauder. And now the Marauders are all dead, all but the quiet
bookworm Remus – and I'm fairly sure he died with you. As I write
this letter, there is a silver paperknife on the table in front of
me. Every now and then, I touch it; it burns, of course, and the
burning tells me I'm alive. I want to take this knife and stab it
through my heart, but, Sirius, I can't. I'm too afraid. And
that's the most hateful thing of all.
I'm sorry, Sirius. I've
betrayed the Marauders as much as Peter did.
Marauders should
stick together.
I hope you'll understand.
Remus.
P.S.
I was going to write this letter to Padfoot. Mark it with the little
moon I used to use on notes, do you remember? But that Padfoot and
that Moony are dead. You are just Sirius. And I am, cowardly and
stupid, just Remus.
Still, it seems odd to sign off a letter to
you without it.
Everything's odd, now that you're gone.
