Voices

He'd never been quite right since the night Lily and James were killed. He never thought of it as death; death meant accepting that they were finally gone, and that was too conclusive, too emotional for him to handle.

(They were killed),

he thought instead, and it was easier that way, easier because rather than dwelling on the loss of his best friend, he could dwell instead on the betrayal of their murderer and lose himself in the blind rage.

He'd never much liked Peter. He supposed, now that he'd grown up a bit, that he may have if he were once a better person, less arrogant, more accepting of others; but he hadn't been, and that made all the difference. Peter was meek, he'd decided at once, impressionable, useless, and he had no good use for

(pansies who wore their hearts and their pranks on their sleeves).

James had always been kind to him, though, because even though James was just as arrogant as he, he'd had good judgment, at least, and didn't form impressions based on how funny or clever people were. While Sirius flat-out disrespected him, James insisted that Peter was just misunderstood and didn't know his place in the world; he followed for lack of independence, and it was lucky his role models had their heads screwed on right.

Now that he thought about it, James had been half-right, and the wrong half had cost him everything. But it hurt to think about James like that, hurt to remember when James was alive, so he focused back on Peter, focused back on the prat who had killed his best friend.

(Killed.)

He supposed he should have used Remus as a decoy instead, and he blamed himself both more and less for having distrusted Remus's loyalty. There had been a spy within the Order, Dumbledore had been sure of that, but never had he expected it to be Peter, of all people. Peter was weak. Pathetic. And yet that was why he'd been ought after in the first place.

So he'd blamed it on Remus, whom he'd never before doubted a day in his life. It seemed stupid, now that he thought of it, but it had seemed rational at the time. No long-standing member of the Order would have turned on them so suddenly; it had to have been a classmate, it had to have been, and Emmeline just wasn't the sort. He'd been taken aback at deducing

(it was Remus),

but somehow, he'd made it fit together in his mind, convinced himself that every lost duel was intention, that every failed spell was a victory. He hated himself for it, but he hated Peter more.

So he went after him. The few days following their murder passed in a sort of blind haze of fury to him; he couldn't remember much anymore. Just the hatred and the rage and the vengeance coursing through his veins, the need to avenge them, make Peter pay.

But he'd lost the chase. He dwelled on this in Azkaban sometimes, on the lost hope and defeat, but he mostly just knew that he was innocent. It pounded in time with his very heartbeat, for it had become a part of him,

(beat, beat, beat, innocent, innocent).

He heard them sometimes, Lily and James. James's voice was more prominent, as he'd known him for so much longer, but Lily's he too remembered; Lily hadn't deserved it, Lily was a good person as well. Sometimes he saw the Dark Mark in the sky, but mostly he just heard their voices, at Hogwarts and after, and it was an ache and a pain and a relief all at once.

Mostly he just tried to forget. Innocent, innocent, innocent, and twelve years passed.

He didn't remember escaping, either. It was fuzzy to him, just as was the search for Peter; he knew he'd transformed and swum, but after that, he knew nothing from the year but Harry. Harry—he looked so like his father, his father who

(wasn't dead),

and sometimes he took solace in the likeness, because the differences didn't really matter to him anymore.

He supposed he wouldn't love Harry so much if it weren't for James. He knew them apart, understood them apart, but all his love for James and Lily he channeled into Harry, almost like an outlet, even without knowing him, even without meeting him for twelve years. He wondered for a moment once, as Harry spotted him in the Quidditch stands in a particularly clear memory, whether he should step back, but he couldn't.

(He traded his motorbike for a hippogriff and hoped for the best.)

He first wondered whether he was really going crazy the next year. It was ironic that the thought had occurred to him once he'd escaped the dementors, once he was keeping track of his life again, but it occurred to him then all the same. He brushed it off as guilt and went on believing that he'd see them again one day, went on with his ridiculous notions of the future.

Remus came to see him, on the occasion. He was grateful for any contact whatsoever: he'd been convinced that Remus would not forgive him, and yet here they were, almost friends again. It would never be the same as before, they both knew this, but they could pretend, at least for a while every so often. He was getting rather good at pretending, so he went on with it, oblivious to any consequences.

Voldemort returned in a distant rush of dragons, goblets, death. He donated the house he hated and took to living through his godson. He felt

(a whisper of unease)

here or there, but he could bear it.

Though he'd never admit it to himself, he felt a rush of something like shame when he left to fight in the Department of Mysteries. Harry was risking his life for him, the godfather who wouldn't let his life catch up to him. He told Harry he was proud of him and to get out while he could, only somewhat hoping Harry would defy him this time. He wasn't sure whether Harry obeyed, only that Bellatrix was suddenly dueling him and he thought he'd caught a glimpse of James's untidy hair.

He looked into his cousin's eyes and realized they were gone, and she was going to kill him—no—he would die. The shock in his own eyes never left him.