Of Puppy and Starlight Eyes and Smoke and Love

by Azpidistra

I hated you when I first met you. Hated you with such a passion it ran through my veins and blood with the same intensity and fire in which I'd eventually come to love you.

Rating: PG-13 (for mild swearing, sexual references, violence)
Disclaimer: None of these characters or universe, of course, is mine.
Author Notes: Includes spoilers up to and including Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. In this, Remus Lupin is the narrator, and the 'you' he keeps referring to, is Sirius Black. Figure this a framework story, and Remus is remembering all this while staring into the fire from the first part. Some later parts do extend beyond Christmas. Also, Remus frequently shifts between the present and the past tense. All song lyrics included are not mine either.

I.
Smoke.

Grey.

Curling, curling gently in the air, I breathe in the scent and ash, and I think of you, of how smoke reminds me of cigarettes, and how we would sit by the window long after James and Peter went to sleep, smoking in silence, your head in my lap, I stroking your hair, sneaking occassional kisses, talking less.

It's difficult. I can't pretend. I don't want to. I miss you. It's Christmas, and my head and heart are full of memories and might-have-beens. I hate possibilities. I hate thinking of what we could have had if only, knowing deep down, we couldn't have known. Anything.

Molly has the radio on. It's one of her favorites. Christina or Cissina or Crissina or Dolly. Something. I don't know her name. Don't remember. Don't care. Vaguely, I think I hear her say something to Arthur, something about how they danced to this song at their wedding, and--oh, dear, Merlin--do you remember the songs we had chosen? Just for giggles on cold winter nights?

Harry's talking to Arthur. He grows more everyday, you would be proud. I keep one ear trained on their conversation, staring into the fire, forcing my mind to empty of everything but you.

Then Harry mentions Snape and I pull myself from reverie and join the conversation and the living again. You'd be proud of him. He hates Severus with the same passion you did and James did. Tell him I neither like nor hate him, but I trust Dumbledore, and because I do, I must trust Snape.

He made me Wolfsbane potion, you know.

Then Harry asks how I am. And I tell him I've been living underground, literally. I tell him Greyback returned. And I can't help but remember, you're the only other soul I've told, the only other one who knows Greyback bit me, made me what I am.

Dumbledore knew, of course, but then Dumbledore knew everything.

II.
I hated you when I first met you. Hated you with such a passion it ran through my veins and blood with the same intensity and fire in which I'd eventually come to love you. You with your perfect moonlight skin and starlight eyes, you with your perfect black hair the same dark shade as night herself, long and silky, so that even before I knew you, loved you, I wondered what it'd be like to touch.

You and James and Peter were all friends. Of course. James and Peter knew one another, had known one another since they were tiny and small and their mothers used to take them to the park to play on Sunday afternoons while they sat on a bench scarcely a metre away and discussed in hushed tones their husbands' jobs, and the new Ministers, and the rising intensity of darker times to come.

You met James quite by accident. When you were ten, and you ran away from home because you were sick of hearing again another lecture on pureblood and upholding family honor. You met James in the park one Sunday afternoon when Peter was home sick, and his mother had taken him to the park anyway, and was sitting next to him to the bench lecturing him on why he shouldn't try to change roses into toads with her wand when she wasn't looking.

"Hello", you said.

And James blinked behind those giant owl-shaped spectacles of his, and repeated the greeting, glancing furitively at his mother, who relising it is hopeless, shooed James off with you, thankful, I think, he had a playmate with Peter not there, and she didn't have to spend the next hour lecturing him. Or making attempt to.

And you and James spent a delightful afternoon, promising to always be bosom buddies and best mates, no matter what. And you went home, almost smiling, only to never see James again until you met again on the Hogwarts' train a year later, and you both gleefully hexed a boy with slimy hair and hooked nose just for fun of it, and you shaked and laughed, and the friendship sealed.

Peter liked you right away. He liked almost anyone or anything James did. Oh, how Peter worshipped James. How you did.

III.
I hated you, you know. Hated you on instinct. Hated you for your perfection. Hated you for your friends and your popularity and your laughter always bubbling on such a beautiful mouth. I don't remember when the hatred slowly became a grudging respect, or when the respect slowly blossomed into genuine admiration or when admiration became friendship.

Still first year sometime, I think, when you and I were the only two left in the dorm over Christmas holidays, James and Peter each going home to see their families, you were invited, of course, by James and his parents, but you turned him down, told him you'd rather spend it with me.

I couldn't understand why. The full moon was Christmas Eve. And you weren't in the dorm, off snogging your latest conquest most likely, and I was already gone when you finally came back, confused as to where I was or why I wasn't there.

And you sat and waited. And waited. And waited. You had bought me a Christmas present, and wanted to give it to me. And when you learned I had been brought into the infirmary at sunrise, you found your way there, narrowly missing Mrs. Norris twice, somehow convincing Madame Pomfrey why you should be allowed to sit with me, why I shouldn't be alone.

And she agreed. And you sat with me. And it was the most natural thing in the world the moment you took my hand in yours, and traced designs atop my palm.

IV.
All lingering doubts swept away when you, James and Peter burst into the dorm halfway through October second year while I read quietly, shouting you knew my secret. And you pulled out books and pamphlets and your words pushed and jumbled together in combinations of run-on words and sentences, mumbling how the slide show presentation went bugger up at the last minute.

"I think what our tongue-tied mate is trying to say here", James interrupted, "is we know your secret, and we don't care"".

"I am not tongue-tied, and no we don't care, and yes, we are going to try to help you. Animagus, Remus, amazing stuff, animals, animals! People into animals! You don't have to be alone anymore".

I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. So I did both, and I hugged James first because he's closest, then Peter somewhat quickly and just a little bit awkwardly, then you. If I hung on a little too tightly, or we held it just a tad too long, no one said anything. I smiled shyly, and James broke the mood announcing he's hungry, and how'd we like to try his invisble cloak again and go to the kitchens for a snack.

V.
I don't remember much about those years. I remember all your conquests, this girl or boy you snogged and this girl or boy you supposedly shagged. You had half the school after you, male and female population alike, after you, and you always just laughed it off, sometimes seeing as many as two or three in one night.

I remember we came up with the nicknames sometime late in fourth year. Mine was easy. James' becuase of the time he sprouted antlers, and he had to wear his winter hat all day to hide them during classes. He wasn't fooling anyone. Peter's because he was sneaky, and could hide easily. Yours because you shuffled your feet, man or later dog alike, shuffled across every floor, a huge smile on your face.

I remember every arm you swung companionbly over my shoulders, or every friendly punch you gave or every smile you bestowed on me, every time you grabbed my arm to pull me along in the corridors when you claimed I walked too slow, every time you poked me to try to get me to give in, every time you grabbed my hand ready to beg.

I remember fifth year Christmas holidays when you and James and Peter all stay to unveil all your hardwork, and the full moon later that week when I wasn't alone. Fifth year holidays when having drunk too much butterbeer and sat before the fire for too long, you sleepily kissed me to the sounds of your quiet laughter, mumbling something about mistletoe before you slump against my shoulder and fell asleep.

I wrap my arms around your waist, lay my head atop yours. You turn in my embrace, I sink further into the couch, and when James comes down in the morning, hair sticking every which direction, owl-shaped spectacles perched crookedly on his nose, still in his pyjamas and barefoot, Peter tailing close behind him, he finds us on the commonroom couch still alseep, arms around each other, your head on my torso, mine on your shoulder, our legs entangled, holding like we'll never let go.

He shooes Peter back into the dormroom, claiming he forgot Sirius' present up there, purposely slamming the door heard, so we wake, not finding anything awkward or strange in our position or predicament or what any it might mean. I nuzzle softly into your neck, you kiss me again, completely soberly, and when James and Peter comes back down again fifteen minutes later, once again empty-handed, a confused Peter trailing in his wake, we're sitting up, rubbing the sleep from our eyes.

VI.
You almost ruin it sixth year. Sixth year when you tell Severus what I am and almost get him killed and James has to run in the last minute to save him. Sixth year when Dumbledore's waiting for me in the infirmary come sunrise and I have to explain to him what happened, James and and Peter and you sitting there, James and Peter straight, you slouched, James interrupting every so often, you silent, myself barely lucid from pain and shock.

James tells you off later, he tells me, after I'm conscious and retaining thoughts again, tells me what you told him, and I turn away, silent tears falling from my eyes, convincing myself you betrayed me, and James pats my shoulder somewhat awkwardly, and tells me some horrible joke he heard from Frank Longbottom, and it doesn't even make me smile.

I don't talk to you for a month, one whole lunar cycle, day after full moon to day before full moon. It's torture, sleeping alone, smoking alone in the dark next to an open window ready to watch the sunrise, while you do the same at sunset. Of seeing the moonlight everytime I look at you, of seeing stars everytime you catch my eyes, of remembering exactly how you smell and how your hairs feels aginst my bare skin.

One month when I find you alone in the room, lying on your back in bed, staring into somewhere past the canopy only you can see, and everything just rushes into me and through me, and everything rushes out, and I sit next you, swearing and crying and hitting you, hitting you hard you know it'll leave bruises in the morning, and you just lie there not saying anything, letting me, until finally exhausted and drained, I collpase, and you hold me, let me cry into your shoulder, tracing circles on my back.

We smoke cigarettes together long after James and Peter are asleep, sitting at the window, your head in my lap, while I fingercomb your hair, and you lightly scrape the my innerthigh, and every movement that night is hurried, then later infinitely tender, I biting your neck, marking you, licking away the blood with my tongue while you shiver. Now, you really are mine", I whisper to you. We say I love you for the first time.

VII.
We graduate. We move into a flat you bought in downtown muggle London. James and Lilly marry. We dance at the wedding and I pin the boutineer onto your suit afraid you might hurt yourself with the pin. You tease me, "Admit it, Moony. You just want reasonable excuse to touch".

"Quite probable", I agree, and I press a quick kiss to your lips, telling you how beautiful you look, aware of how perfectly your silk shirt matches your starlit eyes. You smirk, deepen the kiss, before I push you away, laughing.

We dance. You drink too much. And later when I'm carrying you home, you drunkenly ask me if one day I'd marry you. I think about it breifly, and nod.

You smile. "Good. But we have to play the Beatles at our wedding. Yesterday. No arguements".

I chuckle, but agree.

VIII.
It ended all too soon. All the lies and deciet and misinterpretaions and misconceptions and tricks and illusions. You're sent to Azkaban, and I believe you've betrayed me, again, promising myself this time I won't forgive you.

But of course I eventually do. I slowly rebuild my life. I find an old abandoned cottage in Dover and fix it up, moving in a couple years after James' and Lilly's deaths. Harry gets raised in the muggle world, and I distance myself, only visiting Arabella every now and then for a spot of tea. Dumbledore writes me occassionally, letting me know of this and that of what's going on in the wizarding world. It's he who sends me the article about your escape the same time he invites me to come teach.

And I of course accept, pack my things, wondering what Harry is like, possibly excited, having something to look forward to for the first time in years.

I find you again, only to lose you again. Hugging you again is like coming home.

IX.
We converse through letters for a year. I send you crossword puzzles and tea bags. You send me hippogriff feathers, to which I have to laugh, Buckbeack and I hating one another on instinct.

We make points not to mention how things were, but instead of how things are. I tell you about planting an herb garden behind my tiny cottage. You tell me when Harry, Ron, and Hermione come to visit you. I tell you about going skinny-dipping in the tiny brook nearby. You tell me about eating raw rats, hoping each one might be Wormtail. I tell you about the abandoned Puffskein I found in the woods not long after I moved in here, and the time I accidentily got minor silver poisoning when a few weeks after I moved in when a neighbour stopped over with fresh-baked chocolate chocolate chip cookies on a silver tray and my fingers brush the surface when I reach for a cookie and I tell her I burned my fingers on the cookie itself. I tell you how I quit smoking. You tell me about Egypt and Portugal and Spain and Israel, about how Buckbeack hates the cold, and how you miss having a wand. You tell me Dumbledore keeps promising you a new one. You tell me about the Tri-Wizarding Championship and Harry and how sometimes you sneak onto Hogwarts grounds as Padfoot to watch him.

Then you're here. On my doorstep, explaining Dumbledore told you to lie low for awhile. And I hug you, and bring you in, and we have lunch--tomato soup and grilled cheese because it's all I have--and we eat in silence. Afterwards, we're sitting on the couch, and you fill me in, telling me about Voldemort's return, Cedric Diggory's death, Harry in the infirmary ("But he's going to be ok, eventually, I hope"), making a truce with Snape. You talk until there's no more talking inside you, in which case it's already dark, and I ask if you want a cup of tea, and I stand, then you stand, and you find my music collection, managing to smile how I've kept all my old records and LPs, and artists.

I come to stand next to you with two steaming mugs and you're still standing there holding a record in your hand, and you look up to smile, a small one, cross between touching and impish, before you put the record on, and I hand you your tea.

Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away
Now it looks as though they're here to stay
Oh, I believe in yesterday.

You sip you tea while I regard you thoughtfully. "You kept it", you mutter. "I cannot believe you kept it".

You sleep in my bed, partly because there's no where else for you to sleep, mostly becuase it's only natural. But we don't sleep together, knowing and understanding we're not yet ready to push that again, simply sleeping in the same bed, hands locked, each wishing we'll both still be there come morning.

X.
We move into Grimmauld Place the end of second week of July, just in time to send Harry a birthday present. I take my own bedroom on principal, knowing the Order will be moving in before long, but we're not even attempting to fool ourselves, and usually it's your bed I crawl into at night on the nights I'm there and not away.

Harry's growing up, of course. Discovering girls and mood swings and fear. He worships you, worships you like you worshipped James, this fierce combination of awe and love and brotherhood and family.

The summer pasts all too quickly, and we're often left alone, the Order coming and going, only Molly making daily attemps to visit, alwys bringing food and laughter and good cheer with her in these dark times. Christmas comes and goes and I can hear your laughter while you feed Buckbeack in the afternoons, thankful to have everyone there, thankful for the long, nights after nights we're able to spend together. We've progressed past holding hands to holding each other, but we still wear boxer shorts even in sleep.

XI.
You're gone. I keep repeating, a mantra in my own brain. You're gone.

Last night, I came home late from a meeting with Mad-Eye, who in his paranoia started discussing a possible brigade to see Harry home, to find you still awake, sitting up in bed, flipping through one of my books.

I glanced quickly at the cover, and smiled at the well-familiar tale. "One of my favorites", I told you while slipping my shoes off and folding the thread-bare coat I wore more for security than weather-need.

You replaced the book on the nightstand and answered flippantly, "I think I'd make a good Lancelot, don't you?"

I chuckled. I suppose that would make me Guenevere?"

"No, of course not. You'd be Arthur, obviously".

I sat on the edge of the bed, and lay back. I rest half against you, half against the pillow you had across my stomach. Idly, almost absent-mindly, you played with the collar of my shirt. "You should wear muggle clothes more often, Moony" you whispered, more to yourself than to me. I sat up to look at you straight. And you smile, bordering dangerously on mischeif and something else, regret maybe. "Tonks would make a good Guenevere. She has that necessary fire to her".

"One problem. Guenevere falls in love with Lancelot".

You didn't say anything. Another moment or two, and you stood, wandering to the window, your back to me. I stayed seated, waiting, for you to say something or do something, suddenly afraid.

"Do you remember our song, Moony?". You finally spoke. Your voice shook. I wanted to laugh, to say yes, instead, I nodded. You hummed a few bars.

Suddenly, I'm not half to man I used to be,
There's a shadow hanging over me.
Oh, yesterday came suddenly

You reached hand up to touch the glass window pane. "Promise me, Remus"" you whispered, and your voice was fierce, intense. "Promise me if I die or leave you again, if I'm not here, promise me you'll try to be happy, that you'll do something, that you'll try to rebuild your life again".

Sirus..." I breathed.

You came away from the window towards the bed, you gently pushed my knees apart and kneeled between my legs, you reached one hand upwards to cup my cheek, I leaned into you touch, my eyes closed, my breath unsteady, catching in my throat.

"Promise me, please".

I nodded, eyes still closed, afraid to speak. Then you're half-standing again, your lips over mine, and we fell back against the bed, our kisses urgent, filled with an intensity and passion I don't think we've ever had, kissing one another like we're both air and water and breath. And we hold on like we're never going to let go again.

We can't, you know"I whispered when we finally pause to gasp our breath, and I'm still nuzzled in your neck, sniffing you, reveling in that old familair smell and the silkiness of your hair, the moonlight of your skin and starlight of your eyes, licking the tiny crescent at your collarbone where I marked you a lifetime before. Our legs and arms and torsos entangled, your hands knotted firmly in my hair.

You nodded. Shivered at the flick of my tongue. You tightened your hold, pulled me closer to you, dropped a kiss atop my head. "I know. Tomorrow night, then?.

"Yes, tomorrow", I echoed.

Tomorrow night we would come full circle, share our hearts and souls and bodies again, rediscover every scar and surface and nook. Tomorrow.

But tommorrow you fall saving Harry, falling through the veil, and I don't know if the final look I see on your face is surprise or peace or both. You reach as if to extend your fingers towards me, and you're gone.

I hold onto Harry to stop him from jumping in after you, struggling to keep my composure, struggling to stay calm, repeating the same mantra to him, and long after still in my head.

You're gone.

You're gone.

You're gone.

I sleep in your bed alone, curled around your pillow, it still smelling like you.

You're gone.

XII.
Life moves on, of course. It always does. I continue to help with the Order. Move underground with the other werewolves, to try to get allies for our side. They don't trust me, able to smell the aboveworld on me, my hair, my skin, my raggedy clothes.

Having a mission helps me stay afloat. Gives me something to do. Not enough time to think.

Christmas comes. And I have nothing. None of that. Greyback is back. I'm surrounded by friends, and I have never been more alone.

Music plays, and I only hear our song.

I only see you.

Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play.
Now I need a place to hide away.
Oh, I believe in yesterday

XIII.
Dumbledore is dead. Went on some secret mission with Harry in tow. Draco betrayed us all while they were gone, brought in Death Eaters, called the Dark Mark. Greyback showed up.

Dumbledore almost got him. Draco, I mean. Almost managed to convince him to come to our side. The Severus came, and while Dumbledore was on his hands and knees begging for help, for mercy, for salvation, Severus kills him.

Serverus killed Dumbledore.

Oh, maybe you were right about him all along.

XIV.
Bill Weasley got hurt. Greyback was human when his long claws ripped across Bill's face. He should be okay. Never completely whole, but he'll live.

Molly and Fleur made-up in the infirmary. Yelling, crying, hugging. Tonks turned to me. Took it as a sign. She fell in love with Arthur after all.

She interrupted me, grabbing the front of my robes with a strength I was too weary to resist. "But I don't care either" /i , she cried, "I don't care! I've told you a million times..."

"And I've told you a million times", I sighed, refusing to meet her searching gaze, "that I am too old for you, too poor…too dangerous..." Too much still in love with you.

It was simple really. We baby-sat her when she was a child. Held her scarcely moments after she was born. Coddled her, spoiled her when her mother and father weren't looking. Taught her to ride a broom. You and James taught her to make her own dungbomb and how to throw one. Of course she'd fall in love. With me.

One who's broken. One's who too old.

But am I too old? Broken, yes, certainly. Have been since we were twenty and I thought you had betrayed me. I don't think I ever managed to fix myself.

But too old. I'm only thirty-six. Thirteen years older than Tonks. I feel old.

Tonks deserved someone young. Young and whole. I told her this, thinking really only of you, but not sure how much to say, not sure how much everyone knew.

Molly thought I was being foolish. So does Minerva, dragging Dumbledore into this, saying love would bring about happiness, and he'd want everyone to be happy. But surely he'd not want us to fake it?

I sighed. Buried my face in my hands. I no longer had the strength to fight. I wanted you. Beside me. I needed you beside me. But you weren't. Never would be again. I looked way, could not meet Tonks' eyes. "We'll talk later", I told her.

I pretended not to see the hopefull smile which crossed her lips.

XV.
Minerva led me to the rooms I kept as a Professor. I guessed she figured there'd be no sense in my leaving with Dumbledore's funeral so soon and with Severus gone, the rooms were available. She stood in the doorway for a minute. I told her thank you, she smiled, patted my shoulder motherly, and left me. To do what, I didn't know.

I made myself a cup of tea.

We didn't even have a funeral for you.

I don't have your body to bury. To mourn. Only your spirit. Only our memories.

Tonks found me there sometime later. The tea still in hand, staring at the wall. She sat across from me, gently touched my knee. I looked at her without really seeing her, smiling distractedly.

I didn't know what to say to her. I wouldn't be to give her what she wanted. Not when I was still in love with you.

I stood slowly, dumped the small bit of cold tea in the sink. Stayed there, hands gripped the cold metal and counter. Tonks didn't move from her seat.

"I can't love", I whispered.

"I don't care!" She shouted, rose, turned to face me, hands clenched into fists at her side.

"I know you claim to. I know you think loving me will be enough. That every excuse I give--my age, my class, my kind--doesn't matter. But it does. But more importantly, I won't be able to love you, Tonks. I just can't".

I didn't hear her come up behind me. She placed a hand on my shoulder, was silent another minute before she asked, "You still love him?"

I nodded. Choked. Tears.

XVI.
I held her hand at the funeral. Was I wrong to? But I sat between her and Kingsley, somehow I don't think Kingsley would have appreciated if I held his hand. It was a comfort, a nesccessity, but nothing more.

I think she understood. I hope she understood.

I know Harry saw us. I felt his eyes on us. Taking everything in. Curious, passing no judgements, just allowing and observing. Just like James.

He cornered me at Kings' Cross Station when I went to help see him off again. Hugged me with everything I had. Whispered in my ear that I was to never leave him.

I think he knew I knew he wouldn't be back. Not to Hogwarts. I told him I'd see him at the wedding. Ruffled his hair. Watched him go and join his friends.

XVII.
I haven't returned again to the werewolves. I haven't really returned much of anywhere. I'm just kind of here most days.

I haven't contacted Tonks. I haven't seen her since the wedding, for which I managed to scrounge up some halfway decent robes, where she asked me to dance. I agreed, out of politeness, I suppose, and maybe the company. I kept wishing it was you. They played our song, at which point I left the dance floor, leaving Tonks there alone, while I leaned against a wall, gasping to catch my breath.

The Order is still struggling to regain its footing in the aftermath of Severus' betrayal, realising how many secrets he must have carried out based on the sheer number he carried in, to stand again after Dumbledore's death.

Am I being fair, do you think? I know I promised you. I know I promised I'd try to get on with my life, to try to be happy. But it's difficult.

I keep thinking of you.

Of all that lost time. Of the ages and the years we could have had if only. If only.

Of your moonlit skin and starlit eyes and hair the color of night herself. Of your smell. Of how you always carried Azkaban with you when you left. Of how you always smelled like cigarette smoke and twilight and wet dog.

Of how my heart always beat just a little bit faster when you were in the room.

Of how if I feel anything for Tonks it is more like an older brother-type for a younger sister.

XVIII.
Of how much I still love you.

Sirius. Padfoot.

My heart. My soul. My mate.

all song lyrics from "Yesterday" by the Beatles