After This Our Exile
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken
Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew
And after this our exile
Ash Wednesday, T.S. Eliot
"Why did you do it?" The voice asks, cool, controlling, reminding him of a surgeon's scalpel.
Laughter bubbles up in his throat, sharp and hysterical, making him want to scream until his lungs are raw. Instead he smiles calmly, spreading his hands across the gleaming table before him. "Because," He says emotionlessly, "I was damned either way."
The voice says nothing for a moment, a chill silence that stretches on indefinitely.
"You have committed crimes punishable by death."
And suddenly he starts to laugh, short gasps that leave him fighting for breath, and make spots dance before his eyes. He leans forward, clutching his head in his hands, bony fingers stark white against his dark hair. He continues to laugh hysterically, fighting back the urge to cry.
"I know." He finally gasps out, "Why else do you think I committed them?"
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They don't kill him, of course; the new government doesn't believe in anything as messy as execution. Instead they merely forget those who have committed crimes. Destroy their name; erase them from all official records. Destroy their personal belongings.
There is no such thing as death in this society; merely nothingness.
He is assigned a number- 110360, for his birth date- and is promptly erased. They take him to watch his house be dozed to the ground, a few simple words destroying his ancestral home. His father, he thinks hysterically, would kill him if he ever found out. He says nothing as they burn his library books and research notes; they are of no use to him anymore.
Then they take him back to his cell, a cold room that is painted a white so bright it hurts his eyes. For a few days he is content to sit in the corner, remembering bits and pieces of his past life. Once, when it is late at night (he dimly thinks it night, but can't be certain, without any natural light) he wonders- is this what hell is like, cold and emotionless in its torture?
He wonders, too, what flames would feel like to one who doesn't exist.
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A few days later they drag him from his cell, back to the interrogation room. This time he can see his interrogator, a man with weary eyes and red hair that smolders like flame in the otherwise colorless room. He doesn't say anything, just stares at the man's hair, wondering why it looks so familiar. For some reason he wants to yell at the man; tell him to quit lazing around, that the next bloody time he sets off fireworks in his cauldron he'll be scrubbing bedpans for the next three years, and Gryffindor will loose so many damn points it'll take twenty years to gain them back.
He doesn't say anything.
"You no longer exist. Your memory has been forgotten; you were never born." The man begins, mechanically, as though he is merely reading this week's grocery list. "As such, you do not belong here anymore. You are to be exiled."
For a moment he sits there numbly, desperately trying to recall what he did to deserve this (something about a man named Voldemort, and a boy with green eyes) before he says, "Where?"
"London."
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They give him a flat on the city's west side, a dilapidated hole in a building that was condemned a few years ago and smells of wet cats and rotted cabbage. For the first weeks there he can't sleep at night; he always wakes up screaming. Finally he learns exactly how many aspirin to take to make him sleep without dreams. Every night he counts out seven pills and swallows them, wondering why their chalky taste reminds him of musty herbs and blue fires.
Gradually he regains his memories, event by event, whisper by whisper. Once he has a dream about fangs and the smell of fear, and wakes, sweating at the feel of long teeth grazing his neck. The next night he dreams of a man with amber eyes and fur on his hands and face, and remembers.
Remsu Lupin. After his name come others- Sirius Black, a name that makes him shudder, Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, Tom Riddle. Minerva McGonagall, Morgana Sinistra, Charles Weasley, Premala Snape, a name that makes him think of amused eyes and cool caresses in the dark, Lily Evans.
He never does remember his own name.
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Eventually he begins working at the coffee shop down the corner, mixing Columbian coffee with white cream, hot chocolate and milk, with clinical precision. Three tablespoons of cinnamon, a cup of whipped cream, and a glass of coffee will make a cappuccino, stirred together correctly.
Three drops asphodel will make you sleep; five drops kill you.
The everyday customers begin requesting that he make their drinks, a fact that makes him feel both proud and humiliated, making him recall hot summer days spent in the recesses of a laboratory, feverishly stirring cauldrons of potions.
One day in July- Tuesday, he thinks, but he doesn't really pay attention to the days of the week anymore- a young child asks his mother why he takes so long to make their drinks; if he is 'slow' like Jimmy from school. The mother quickly hushes her child and says apologetically, "He doesn't really think before he speaks. You know how children are."
He merely hands them their drinks and says, "Four pounds and thirty-three pence."
He doesn't enjoy his job as much afterwards.
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Quickly, years fly by, until he has learned to push his meager memories of his past life to the back of his mind. Every so often he will see something- a girl with curly brown hair, a priest in clerical robes- that plunges him back into the past. One day, walking to work, a mangy black dog comes out of an alley in front of him and wags its tail pleadingly, its eyes glazed with hunger. He shudders, remembering another black dog, always slinking after him and growling.
Sometimes late at night- he's taking ten or eleven aspirins at a time, now, to get to sleep- he feels a wave of aching loneliness come over him, making him feel hollow and empty. Then and only then he wishes for someone to share this with. One night he dreams of a girl with laughing green eyes and wakes up crying; the next night he dreams of a man with tired amber eyes who says, "I always knew we were the same, you and I. Outcasts without anyone but each other."
He wakes up feeling oddly comforted by his dream-confidant's words.
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One day, November third, - he remembers the date clearly because it is his forty-fifth birthday- he goes to the nearby library. For a few precious hours he skulks in the library, idly perusing worn copies of National Geographic. He sits at a wobbly table in the back of the reading room, magazines hiding him from view, and reads, escaping to places he knows he'll never see. Across the room a young couple talks together in whispers, heads bent close together.
For a moment he watches them, before bowing his head to continue his aimless research.
He finally leaves after the librarian- an old woman with kind eyes- gently tells him she has to lock up, that he needs to go home. Quietly he puts his magazines back in their special cabinet and leaves, walking quickly, shoulders hunched.
Outside the sun is about to set, turning London's usually gray streets into vibrant red and gold passages swarming with pedestrians. Around him people chatter and laugh, speaking of menial things, but he ignores them and continues onward, eyes staring at the pavement before him. Suddenly he bumps into someone walking the other way and he looks up, expecting to be loudly and coarsely told off.
He has amber eyes.
All he can think is this man has amber eyes, weary and melancholy. The memory of hot breath and rankling fear comes back to him in a rush. "I-I'm sorry." He says quickly and hurries onward.
"Wait!" The man cries desperately, hurrying after him. He stops, back stiffened and turns to look at this oh-so-familiar man. "Severus!" The man cries, making him look around for this Severus. The man comes to stop before him and says, "Severus Snape. Remember me- Remus Lupin?"
In a rush he recalls him as a boy, laughing as his friends play pranks on the other students. He says the first thing that comes into his mind, the words from his dream, "I always knew we were the same, you and I. Outcasts without anyone but each other."
Remus smiles wryly, eyes the only color in his gray-tinged face. Even his hair is gray, making him fade into the background. "Never thought I'd hear that from you."
Severus- at least, he finally has a name to assign to himself- says nothing, merely looks away. Remus suddenly asks, "Would you like a cup of tea?" His voice sounds equal parts resigned and beseeching.
Severus looks at Remus and replies, "Please."
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Remus' apartment is nearly empty, containing a bed, two chairs, a rickety table, and an old, rusty set of chains. Across the room is a small doorway that Severus presumes leads to the kitchen and bathroom. Vaguely he thinks it looks like a resting place for travelers, not a lived in apartment. Remus quietly closes the door and says, "You can put your coat on the bed." He waves vaguely at one of the chairs. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be back in a minute."
Severus nods and shrugs out of his threadbare coat, and sits down. A few minutes later Remus returns with a battered tray holding a chipped teapot, two mugs, and a container of sugar. He sets it down on the table and slides into his seat, asking, "How do you like it?"
"Black." Remus quickly hands Severus his drink and busies himself with mixing sugar in his own. For a few minutes they sit in silence, awkwardly sipping their drinks.
Suddenly Remus sets his mug on the table and quietly asks, "How do you survive?" He doesn't say anymore, but Severus understands.
"I forget. It can't hurt if the pain is dulled." He says quietly, merely stating a fact.
Remus laughs bitterly, his eyes flaring for a split second before dulling. "I remember. If I don't what do I have left? Just an empty apartment and set of claws." He cradles his head in his hands.
Severus racks his mind for anything to say, sifting through moth-eaten memories. "Whatever happened to Black?" He shivers as he says the name, an action that goes unnoticed by Remus.
Remus looks up, eyes hard as stone. "He killed himself…. The Ministry gave him a choice between Azkaban and poison. He chose poison."
Severus says nothing, merely lifts a corner of his mouth in a smirk, an action long-forgotten. Gryffindors are naïve and brave, destined for an early grave; Slytherins cunning and sly, always able to squeak by, he recalls suddenly, the old school rhyme flashing through his mind.
"I can still remember the smell when they cremated him." Remus says hollowly, eyes blank. "And after it was over, they said he had never existed."
For a minute neither speaks, and Severus imagines he can hear the seconds click by. "But I knew he did." Remus says desperately, as though trying to convince himself. "I know he did. People just can't be forgotten that easily."
"Yes they can." Severus replies. "We have been. We don't exist, really."
Remus looks up with a lost expression that quickly fades away, leaving him expressionless. "I used to hate you." He says flatly. "It was a long time ago."
"A long time ago." Severus agrees. "There's no such thing as hate now."
Then he leans forward and kisses Remus hungrily, snaking his hands in his hair. Remus responds with animalistic passion, nails leaving half-moon marks across Severus' shoulders. Unbidden the image of a boy with sad eyes and sharp teeth, scraping his neck, the reek of fear, darkness all around, flashes across his mind. Dimly, he can taste blood, slick and coppery-sweet on his tongue. For a moment he wonders which of them will bleed the most in this relationship.
They kiss, not out of love, but because this is human, and perhaps, together they will not be forgotten.