Title: Grey Hairs and White Fur

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: implied Sirius/Remus, Hagrid/Remus

Warning: angst and slash.

Summery: Having just made it to Hogwarts, Sirius spies on Remus.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, because if I did book five would have ended very differently, nor am I making any money off my writings.

Grey Hairs and White Fur

You've changed. You've changed too much. I know that people tend to do that, especially after twelve years, but it's not you I'm watching. It's someone else completely, someone older and more educated, a sophisticated teacher who's not you at all. I'm not saying you weren't intelligent or more mature for your age compared to the rest of us, because you were all those things, but this isn't you.

You're frail now, I see it in the way you walk, how your legs bend a little too far down when you take steps and how, after you've been sitting for a long time you get stiff. You were always the frail one of the group, the one whom everyone protected and defended. I treated you like you were made of glass, but I always knew you weren't truly frail, only a little breakable, slightly more sensitive than me and Prongs and Wormtail.

But there's no denying it now. It's the way you walk, so stiff and halted. It's the way you speak, so conscious and quiet, only in undertones and never looking at the one you're addressing. It's the way your hair falls in front of your eyes and how you brush it so carelessly away. It's you, but at the same time not you. You're older, wiser and weaker. And I don't like it.

I've been watching you for a while. I follow you around outside, as you walk to the hut near the Forbidden Forest. It's been such a long time since I've graced these grounds, I was nearly lost the first day I arrived, searching for the rat, but then I saw you. I almost didn't recognize you. You walked by, coming out of the Quidditch pitch, chatting freely with a younger male, most likely a sixth or seventh year student, and I hardly noticed. You were just another teacher (not a well paid teacher either, judging by the state of your robes) discussing some assignment or test or project with a well-mannered upstanding student.

I would have let you walk by, completely unheeded if you hadn't stumbled. There I was, sitting behind a tree, shrouded in the greenery of the Forbidden Forest watching you trip over a root, not twenty feet away. And I knew it was you. There were no assumptions in my mind that you could possibly be another person; it was you I saw and you I followed.

And follow you I did, all the way up to the school entrance hall, where you courteously held the door open for the student, and two more, who weren't far behind. Then you disappeared inside the light of the castle and I feared I would see you no more. I felt compelled to observe; I hadn't beheld anyone of your beauty and poise since I last saw you, twelve years ago. I needed to know where that person had gone, because you were so different. Still beautiful, with those wide hazel eyes and delicate cheekbones, and still graceful despite the stiffness in your walk and the darns in your robes, but not the same, never the same.

You walk the grounds as if mocking me, tempting me to come close, knowing I could never resist. That is something that hasn't changed; your ability to control my every move is still fully functioning, and it surprises me now, just as it did in first year, how just seeing you walk by can turn the routine of my day in a whole new direction. I suppose that will never change, regardless of how much you. I give in to that temptation, always getting a little closer to you with every try, always risking a little more.

I see you up close in a new light, as sultry dimming sunshine falls across your face, highlighting the prematurely gray strands of your hair. You've changed even more than I thought. Your face, now creased with lines and worries holds an intelligence and subtle confidence that it lacked before, and I'm drawn to you like a parched man towards water. You're the first piece of divinity I've seen in such a long time, and I never want to let you out of my sight.

I've memorized your schedule; I know where and when to find you. You always were so organized and set in your routine; it seems that hasn't changed either. Saturday afternoons you spend in the hut near the forest with Hagrid. I follow you, behind my safe haven of trees, as you walk elegantly in the snow. Your arms clutched about your body, trying to keep some of the frigid winter cold out, for your robes, torn and tattered near the bottom, are nothing more than autumn ones that should never be worn in such weather. The footprints you leave are still small, your feet petite and almost feminine. I can remember rubbing them the nights after the full moon; your body always was so sore and the werewolf's claws would scar your battered feet. I never minded rubbing them, actually I don't recall a time when you asked; I always offered.

Sometimes during the school day, you'll bring your classes outside for lessons. Of course only on the warmer days, as winter slowly melts into spring and the weather is tamed. You never did like the cold.

I enjoy the few times you do this. The sound of your sweet voice, lecturing harmoniously about bowtruckles, red caps, hinkypunks and banshees, flows out to the forest where I sit and listen, enjoying the lessons. I've forgotten so much over the past twelve years; it seems the knowledge I once learned at Hogwarts has leaked out and been lost, but during these lessons I remember. I can envision our younger selves, fourteen or fifteen, attending Defense Against the Dark Arts classes outside, joking about professors and other students, me chancing glances at you as you work, so absorbed in the lesson. You always were a hard worker, and I never was because I was too busy watching you work. Ironic how these things work out, here I am, watching you teach a class.

And the students love you, how could they not? Never was our Defense Against the Dark Arts class like this. The younger ones look up to you with awe in their eyes; they admire you and listen attentively, never doubting a word that leaves your mouth. The older ones, they are the same, just more tactful about it. I see the way many of the young girls look at you, reminiscent of the way I used to, and the way I still do. They smile and titter, giggles light as air, trying to catch your fancy. And you're so diplomatic about it; you smile back, grace them with that infectiously beautiful grin and then return your attention to the rest of the class. It's a wondrous thing, really.

With each passing day I see the weariness gain in your eyes. I've lost track of the dates and I'm unsure of the lunar cycle, but I can tell by looking at you, the way the fine bones in your cheeks stick out just a little too far, the way your robes hang off your body, the way you stop to catch your breath while walking from Hagrid's hut, the full moon is coming, and I know that it is no longer the event it used to be when we were in school.

We had fun then; the days leading up to the full moon were filled with excitement and the good sort of anxiousness. Parading around the forest in the dead of night while play fighting. I can see how this had changed as well.

There is no longer anticipation in your eyes; they're strained and full of worry and concern. The moon has taken its toll on you, as you always said it eventually would. I never believed you though; I would tell you that you were just being paranoid and that we'd be old men and still tromping around as dogs during the full moon, having a good time. It seems I was wrong about that.

You weren't in the Shrieking Shack the next full moon though. I waited for you all night and you never came. It must have been a potion. The year before Lily and James died there was a potion put on the market to help werewolves through their transformations. You doubted it then, but I suppose you must have bought into it now, for you never turned up to our old haunt.

I can't help but ponder whether your fur has turned white or gray, like your hair has done. I can remember rubbing you fur with my nose, and tangling it in my paws during our monthly battles in the Shrieking Shack. It was coarse, but silky to the touch, and the most beautiful hazel that matched you hair. It probably is gray now, and most likely has lost its thickness, as your hair seems to have done. That wolf wouldn't be you. No wolf that had gray hair and would fall asleep in front of the fire on a full moon night would be you. But somehow it is, and I find myself wondering whether it would be any different if I had not been sent to Azkaban years ago.

So now I wait for you, behind the hut by the forest, my head poked around the corner, and I know you will be here. Saturday afternoons are spent with Hagrid, and so I linger here, reminiscing. I've never been so close to the school, or to the dangers of being spotted.

I know you, Remus. I know you must have informed Dumbledore about my Animagus form, and that now the professors have been told to keep an eye open for a Grim-like dog. But still I risk it, sitting in the shadows, hearing that mock you silently scream to me as you fast approach the hut. You must enjoy taunting me, knowing that I wish to reach out and touch you. You always were a sadist at heart, Lupin, even though you fixedly denied it before.

I peer around the corner, trying to glimpse you further, as you knock softly; three times I count, on Hagrid's wooden door. You cradle the knuckles you used to rap the wood with, soothingly in your other hand. You must have hit them harder than it looked like, or possibly your bones are just sore from the transformation only nights before. The last one is correct, I'm sure of it.

Hagrid opens the door to his cabin, more massive and imposing than I recall him to be. You smile, the same smile you favor the female students with, I notice, as he ushers you inside.

I wish to know what is being said, what is being done. I cannot recollect what Hagrid's hut looked like from the inside. It has been far too long since I've stepped foot within. I have the urge to jump onto the window ledge and observe from there; the blinds are drawn up on the back window. Then I could view you doing more than walking to and fro in the frigid weather.

Is the risk too high? Certainly you would recognize me if you spotted my dog form. If you reported a sighting more Dementors would be sent in, and I have a hard enough time avoiding the small number Hogwarts already contains. But I crave seeing you, watching you move so gracefully, regardless of the obvious changes that have taken place throughout the last twelve years.

I can't help myself, I may well be demolishing everything that I've worked for; escaping Azkaban, evading the Dementors, and the seemingly never ending trip to Hogwarts, but I can't stop myself. I jump lightly onto the ledge, ready to make my escape if you so much as glance my way, but you don't look. You're much too busy too look.

I feel my heart pounding against my hollow chest, making too much noise for its own good. This is impossible.

There you are, sitting on the giant's lap, thin, sculpted legs wrapping around his colossal waist, as you lean in closer, your mouth against his, moving slowly.

I want to jump down, to leave this cabin and not think of it again, but I can't pull myself away. This is what I wanted, isn't it? I wished to see you doing something more than just walking the grounds, to see whether you've changed in more than just your appearance. But I can't move. I watch as you slide closer on his lap and kiss him more fiercely, his much larger mouth attacking yours in a wet haze. You'll be swallowed I'm sure; he's more than double your size. It must be awkward, even though you sit on his lap; you arch up, straining to reach him. Your thin arms link around his neck, tangling in his wild black hair, as he massages your back, rubbing in slow circles up and down.

I have to leave, I can't watch this much longer. With every passing moment I feel anger building in my stomach and bile rising in my throat. You once told me you were mine forever. This isn't mine. Mine wouldn't do this.

I jump down silently and noiselessly and walk back to the shadows of the forest. You're not the same person at all. I thought you'd changed, grown a few gray hairs and had some wrinkles form, but this is past changing. This is even past maturing. It's revolutionary, like morphing.

I owned you back then, before Azkaban. You practically threw yourself at me, and I was more than happy to oblige. You never would have strayed or even thought about straying. You don't have the fucking right to do this to me.

I don't know why I wait, but I do, in the shallow parts of the forest, closer to the castle than the cabin. It's a long time before you immerge, an hour, possibly two. I'm not sure; I'm too blind with fury.

You're purely debauched as you walk by. Your hair, usually tidy though windblown, is disheveled from front to back. Your lips are stained red from kissing and full of a pout. And your robes, obviously thrown hastily on are hanging limply from your body devoid of any style. The top two buttons are undone, and as you come closer I notice they have been ripped off. Slut.

I let out a low growl before I can stop myself. You hear and turn behind you, looking to see whether you're being followed. Seeing no one you circle to face the forest, staring just past me. I crouch low to the ground, but make no move to leave. I plan on watching your reaction.

You brush it off and continue walking and I follow, at a slower pace behind you, careful not to step on any twigs that might make a cracking sound to alert you of my presence. I have the fleeting thought of pouncing on you. You'd never see what's coming. I could kill you within seconds with my canine teeth. But I don't, though the thought tempts me in a scarily pleasant way.

As you enter the castle, I stay quiet in the bushes and rest my head on the forest floor. Lupin, I don't think you're mine any longer. You've simply changed too much.

Fin.