Summer of Youth

My baby sister arrived when I was eight years old. I have told you that mother didn't care much for her. She didn't have my curse. She didn't complain often as an infant. She was quiet, giggled often, complied to my mother's trust, and loved her unconditionally. I had never seen love so pure since then. But mother didn't focus on her often. She started to focus less on me, too. She cared for the infant, Alice, until she was five and had some sort of autonomy on her own. Even then her care was elsewhere. She would go off during the day, leaving me to tend to Alice.

I would bathe her, clothe her, feed her, care for her. I never went to school. I taught myself. I went to the library, often taking her with me, and I devoured the books. Since I was not really a wizard and not really a human boy, I slipped below the notice of officials. I preferred it that way. When mother didn't care I tended Alice. When she did, I read and studied. For five years it was like that. Then when I was fifteen the care of the baby went to me completely.

And that is the story for fall.

I will tell you a story of a year before that, when I was twelve years old. I had one good friend, and it was also the year I met the man who would later tell me about you.

Arthur was smiling warmly. Hermione looked up from the notepad. She knew this would be a good memory, a kind one.

The door opened and two servants walked in. They picked through the books, their trained legs missing mound after mountain after valley. The two went to Arthur, who cleared the desk. Two plates of food were set before them. Each hosted a meat glazed in sauce, a piece of round bread, mashed potatoes coated in the same sauce as the meat, and a neat arrangement of sliced green vegetables. A glass of water and several napkins accompanied them.

The servants waited until Arthur dismissed them.

"Eat, I like my food cold. I'll continue telling you my story."

The friend, my same age, was called Dominique Montis. Dominique of the Mountain. He had narrow eyes and a long face that made you think he had been smothered by his life. His hair was scrappy and uneven. The air of being unwanted lingered around him like a bad raincloud. I was his only friend, I've come to think. I was the only one who spoke to him, who stayed up late at night.

He was unwanted at home. Mother must have had a hidden liking towards him. Although she did not acknowledge his presence most days—she hardly noticed mine save for once a month—she would prepare food when he came by. She would also let us see her old school text books. I tried to learn as much as I could with Dominique. Neither of us ever received a letter from Hogwarts.

Dominique didn't speak of his past, but he still hungered to see the spells lined out on books, to hold a wand, to mix a potion. He had a quiet passion for learning. When I went to get a cup of water, I often returned to find him mesmerized in a book we hadn't gotten to yet. I would fight him playfully for it and we would study.

Now it must seem strange to you that two twelve year old boys' great idea of fun was reading textbooks and venturing to Diagon Alley when we could for more books. Looking back, I even admit it was strange. But, I assume, it was because this vault of knowledge had been banned from us. Dominique was born to a pureblood family where he was unwanted, because his father thought magic was a joke played on kids to raise their expectations of reality. His mother had only birthed him out of weak rebellion. Once she saw a living infant in her arms her guile fell away and she became cheap and cold. She gave him food and shelter. Regardless of the materials and barest living necessities satisfied, he was a tired, miserable boy.

And me, my magic weakened each day. By the time I was eleven the most contact I had with magic, aside from my lupine problem, was my mother. Hogwarts couldn't teach me. There was nothing to teach. Hogwarts was a distant dream, a mirage in the desert of clear, cool ponds and white-necked swans.

Let's return to Dominique.

One evening we tired of reading and snuck out of our cramped apartments. I saw his mother in the window, her black, dull eyes staring out into the night. One of her arms rested on a window sill. Smoke rose from a thin cigarette between her fingers. I have yet to meet another witch or wizard who smoked muggle cigarettes.

The door opened and Dominique slipped out in a leather jacket with a thin bag at his side. His mother didn't even blink. I met him at the end of the road. He smiled broadly at me. Our friendship flourished.

I knew that the nearly mute boy with an often fidgety or violent temper had joy in his heart. Maybe all because of me. I treated him like a brother, just as I treated little four year old sister. Alice was at home with mother. It was one of her good days.

Dominique and I walked across the stretch of shoddy apartment buildings. We talked about various things. Dominique said quietly that his mother's father dropped by the other day. He yelled and exploded at her. The woman lazily blinked her eyes.

Dominique's eyes clouded over. We were passing the darkest part of the neighborhood, where the sun's last rays didn't grace. He pressed his lips together, shifting the thin bag from shoulder to shoulder.

"He yelled at her and I was surprised. I walked towards him, I knew I shouldn't have. Father wasn't home. He never was. He sometimes sends money and all, and visits. He pats my head then and asks how my grades are. He doesn't care. He doesn't see what we live in. But her father, he saw. He pointed at the cracked lamp and the stained rug. He yelled at her and she rolled her eyes. He saw me then and grabbed my by the shoulder."

Dominique demonstrated by pinching my shoulder gruffly. I winced slightly. I had an unhealed scar there. I let him because I knew that his grandfather had done worse. Now tears were slipping down his cheeks. He hastily wiped them away.

"And—And he yelled at me, too. 'Look at this piece of' and he called me all sorts of strange names. 'Can't do magic, his blood stained, his mother a' but here he said I word I didn't understand. The way mother finally reacted told me that it was bad."

He told me how his father only prolonged his exasperation and then stormed away. He wore a fine beige suit.

"Mum didn't say anything after that. She looked at me like I had caused her trouble. I bowed my head but it was too late. She hit me a little, not as bad as usual, and sent me to my room." Dominique's expression hardened at once. I knew he didn't want to say anything else. He could tell me everything, anything, but not all at once. Learning to trust is difficult. I can tell you that first hand.

We reached a silver wire fence. We found a latch and opened it up. Dominique went through that while I scrambled over the top—unsuccessfully. I slid back down, my hands turned red. We went to the other side and burst out laughing. At the time, my marks and my dismal falling down had been the most hilarious, uplifting event in our cramped lives.

The field that spread above us sloped gently upwards with a few hills. Trees steadily filled the surroundings until they filtered into a large forest. The stars glittered overhead. Dominique and I went to one of the trees. I had brought a backpack that I had found and begged mother to buy for me when she was in a gentler mood. Inside there were sleeping bags, thin, but enough for the warm summer evening. We curled up in them, munched on a few treats Dominique bought with the few coins his father gave him each visit. We ate in peace, talking, relaxing, and having a good time despite what the lives at home were.

"Hopefully that's not altogether unfamiliar to you, Miss Granger." Arthur said. He leaned over and picked up his fork and knife. He slowly cut the meat into tender pieces and ate them, spilling some sauce down his lips. He took a napkin and wiped the smudges away.

Hermione shrugged, returning to the meal she had nearly altogether abandoned. She told the quill to pause. She didn't want it to record this part of the conversation, the one most dear to her heart.

The quill waited and Hermione, stabbing a vegetable with the fork, looked at Arthur. She shrugged again.

"We never had time to do fun things. We were always on adventures or busy with schoolwork. And, during the summer, Harry never could leave his home. When he did it was to Ron's and then something or other would distract us. It exhausts me, thinking about my childhood." She paled slightly.

Arthur reached over and patted her hand. A way a grandfather might, or an old professor. "What a life it was. Hardly a break in your schedule. So much so you had to jump back in time, if I'm correct?" His eyes twinkled.

She laughed. "I think I know who your friend was."

"Wait and see."

She quieted, finishing off her plate. Arthur did the same, chewing thoughtfully. The servants came back and collected the cleared plates. They efficiently wiped off the desk and went away.

"Anything else?" Arthur asked.

Hermione shook her head furiously.

Arthur then frowned. "Where do you live?"

Hermione looked anywhere but at him. She twisted her fingers. "I live in an apartment in London, along with a roommate. We're studying for the same job. I wanted to write a book, hopefully earn some extra money."

"For a woman as smart as you are, you sure are a wretched liar." Arthur beckoned a servant closer. He whispered a few words to her. She acquiesced, her eyes flicking to Hermione, and left. Her heels clicked against the floor.

When Hermione said nothing, Arthur continued. "It's always people like you who catch the short end of the stick."

"I suppose."

"If only I could live to see you to my age. What a wise, brilliant woman you will be then. You'll have marinated in life and matured like fine wine. You'll have become the most excellent advisor. You could become the Hogwarts headmistress easily."

"Please, you flatter me."

"I don't like to give empty comments." His jovial mood snapped away. It was replaced by a hard, relentless, temperamental scowl.

Hermione was terrified at once. Though, she didn't show it. She kept her face demure and downturned. She knew her eyes were wide. The man was half-wolf. She had forgotten that he could swipe at his own beloved dog, the way he spoke to her. He was kind and intelligent. More so than most people. And yet, like a sea, the storm clouds could roll in without warning.

Arthur relaxed. "I don't like those words, the empty ones that people use these days. I hate them. I hate how people throw 'love' around like it's a hard mint."

The subject fell away, a leaf separating from its twig. Hermione cleared her throat and thanked him for the meal. His smile returned once again.

"Don't worry about it, ducky." He chuckled. She smiled at the nickname.

The servant returned with an envelope and a book. He took it graciously and tucked it into his desk. Hermione didn't see what it was or for whom it was. Arthur leaned over the desk, lacing his old hands, and continued.

They talked about anything and everything. The talked about kid boy things. They talked about the girl they went to school with, how she made them confused and angry. Then again, her pigtails do all nicely and she always made them laugh.

"You know Hogwarts, right?" He asked.

I nodded.

"What house would you have been in?"

We often did that. We fantasized about having magic and taking lessons. We imagined the people there, the teachers. Surely they were far more elite and better than the lazy, withdrawn teachers we saw each day at our poor, remorseful school.

I thought about his question. "Hm, I think I know. And you?"

At the same time we said: "Ravenclaw!"

Unlike most purebloods, Dominique wasn't taught to cross his fingers for Slytherin. He knew about it, and he didn't care. It was a name, like Gryffindor. It was Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw we thought of and read about. We wanted to be either the cunning, knowledgable Ravenclaw. Or we could have had the friendship and loyalty of Hufflepuff. The other two houses were like archetype villains and heroes to us. Unachievable by little boys who could hardly keep their heads up in the their own homes.

"Sometimes," Dominique said as if he was in a trance of utter bliss, "when Mum is in a good mood she tells me stories of the school."

By good mood he meant drunk.

Once I had seen her in the fabled "good mood" before that night. I went with him home after school. This was before the night of a full moon. He didn't know, not just yet, what would happen to me. But he knew I was suddenly on guard and twitchy.

The door opened and his mother lunged at him. She scooped the petrified Dominique in her thick arms and peppered his head with sticky kisses. He tried to squirm away and scream. She didn't let him.

"My boy! My baby boy! My darling!" She cried out, her voice slurred. I was afraid she would choke Dominique to death.

I stomped on her foot. She loosened her grip and looked hazily around for me. Dominique dropped to the ground, gasping for breath. I ran to my house, begging mother for help and hoping she wasn't in a "good mood". She looked up at me from her desk. She had her wand out. Alice was on the ground by her feet, playing with a toy duck.

My words jumbled, I quickly told her what was happening.

Mother laughed.

"Oh Isabella isn't dangerous. She's touchy and miserable. Dominique will be fine. I've been around her."

I thought I had been greatly betrayed. I wanted to scream at her. You don't care! You hate me! You wish you could get rid of both me and Alice! But then, speaking of her, Alice looked up at me with her pale green eyes. I shut up real good.

I ran back to Dominique's house. His mother was on the couch, far away from him. I saw his face. Content.

Later, looking back, I pierced through the veil of my rage and panic. I saw that Dominique truly was happy. This was the only time his mother paid him any attention.

She luckily forgot about my foot-stomping, too.

I thought about that evening as we lay under the stars. Dominique started talking again.

"She says that's it's the most magical place in the world. It's a living monument. There are brooms flying everywhere and all sorts of amazing gadgets we've read about. You can't use magic in the halls or you get in trouble."

I should mention that we had no idea that we could be punished for using magic at home unsupervised. Not that we had enough to use and capture the Ministry's attention. What were two, weak, poor boys in the eyes of the gilded Ministry?

I listened as Dominique weaved stories of shifting halls and talking pictures. I smiled at him and felt my head grow sleepy. I tried to stay up, seeing as how Dominique was using my lap as a pillow for his head, we didn't have enough pillows, and I had my hand on his chest. I could feel his small heart thump and his chest rise and fall. If I fell asleep, I wouldn't notice if my legs went numb. My back was against a tree, cushioned by a soft pillow embedded with octagonal beads.

I remember it all so clearly.

"I'm a werewolf." I whispered softly. My eyes were already sliding shut.

Dominique looked up at me. "That's fine." He said gently.

I fell asleep despite my efforts. So did he. It was the last peaceful night for a long time.

One day a month after, Dominique went home and never came back. His grandfather and father had arrived at the same time. I could hear them scream from my house. I hugged Alice to my chest, brushing her hair and telling her stories. I tried to overrun the shouting voices, but I was a feeble pebble in an incessant stream.

Mother was hurting from the yelling, too. I could see it in her haunted eyes. She knew what it felt like. Her father's father had chastised her the same way when he saw the scar across her belly, and the baby growing beneath.

I heard a curse I didn't recognize followed by a scream, then a gunshot. It wasn't unfamiliar in our neighborhood. There was a gang of older boys down south. Sometimes they squabbled and you could hear the lead pipes clanking and the chains clattering a mile off.

The following day I saw bodies being evacuated from the house. One was small, pitiful. A bullet gone wrong into the throat. I wept for hours, days, and then I became distant and weak. Mother cared for Alice, who did not understand my sorrow.

I had lost my only friend. How could I let him go so easily?

I had walked him home.

He knew a my secrets.

I had seen the scratches on the door.

He was fine with them.

I heard the glass shatter.

He loved me.

I saw the burning ember of a cigarette.

I loved him.

I shut the door behind him. I shut off his life. He smiled at me one last time. In a way, I thought his smile was knowing. His fate was coming and he was ready for it. To escape the suffering. And leave me alone.

Arthur wept now. Hermione sat, shocked still. Her eyes were dry, but gazing morosely towards Arthur. The soft tears trickled down his cheeks. He wiped them away with a sigh. He was done, now.

"I can return tomorrow." Hermione said calmly. "If it's too difficult now."

His gaze snapped at her hotly.

"No. There's more. We can take a break after I finish this part. But we will complete the story today. I apologize for consuming your time, but you came here willingly."

Hermione nodded weakly. The protest dying in her throat. A question occurred, she paused. His attention had been captured.

"You said this was in summer, but you were in school?"

"Yes. I was a bad student, despite my wit. Dominique and I had been removed and placed into a 'special' class. To help us. We went to school year round. And that was good enough. Any reason to keep us away from home."

"Oh, I see."

"Then, be quiet and let me go on."

It would be a lie to say that I've gotten over losing him. As you've seen from my shameless tears. But the pain I grew used to. I became numb. I lost trust in people, in friends. I became a remote character in our faceless classes.

During summer, as you pointed out, I had those classes. I didn't have to attend, necessarily. Later I would drop them completely, seeing as I had a little sister to care for and a removed mother.

No one truly cared, then, when I ran away. Mother didn't notice until the second day. Which was a record in her book.

I grabbed my things in the evening. I put them in the backpack I had taken that day that felt so long ago to the meadow. Once everything was in place, I ran away. Easy as that. I didn't have plans. I would take what little money I had saved from various petty jobs they gave children, and I ran.

I went first to the meadow. I cut through it, away from people, and I thought. I remembered Dominique. I remembered Alice's birth, when she was so tiny. Mother nursed her and appeared to care. I remembered Mother's broken lullabies. I remembered Limestone. I didn't cry. Crying was over, now.

I walked and walked for what seemed like a month. The sun went to high noon when I found a park. I went into it and followed a path, which led me to the city. I remember the shocking bustle and noise of the city. True, I had been there with mother, but we moved when her job failed her. I hardly recognized the streets and the gush of people.

This was nothing compared to London. In this city, I forget the name now, I went to find a public transportation method. I found a bus and it took me to London, where I received another cultural shock. It helped me take the mind off of everything that poisoned and bit me like stinging insects.

I walked around the city for some time, exploring, stepping away from pedestrians. Some gave me curious looks. What was a child doing in the city? But the pity faded away, distracted by a glimmer of something in the distance or a sharp sound to the opposite direction of me. I didn't mind. The less attention the better.

I grew bored of the glamor soon. Eventually I ended up in the more magical part of town, one where Dominique and I had snuck off to twice. We had taken the same route, that's why I knew it so well and had little trouble coming.

Then, two curious children was a common sight. One lone child was sad, but not altogether that special. I went to the bricks I knew unlocked the key to Diagon Alley. I didn't enter. Those twin memories burned in my head. I turned away, walking into the streets. The temptation was too much. Still, I had to wait. A wizard walked by, tapping them. The wait proved worth it. I slid in after him.

The magical astounded me. Even more than the big city had. I walked in, looking around like a foolish puppy. I saw shops with every sort of marvel. I saw strangely robed individuals. I heard excited voices. I saw groups of friends. I saw innocent minds. They didn't hear gunshots in the night.

A boy my age walked past me. His eyes met mine. We knew at once who the other was. The boy tore away from the crowd. We had a strange sense, like we both knew what secrets lay in our hearts. We walked near each other. The boy had stolen from his book shopping.

We walked together until the boy politely turned to me.

"I'm Remus Lupin." He said, sticking a hand out.

"Arthur Kirkland." I responded. I shook his hand.

Like that I had made a new friend. He did not replace Dominique, however. He had his group of three friends he stuck with. I was a side buddy, someone to look to when he came home from the summer, someone to write to during the school year, someone to look toward for comfort when his best friends perished, years later.

Someone to share the agonizing loneliness of the pale moon.

We became lifelong friends that afternoon. In our adult lives, up to his untimely death. We corresponded. He told me of you. I was busy at that time. Now I know I should have paid more attention. Maybe he would have lived.

I helped him buy books. We spoke. We discussed. He proved to be a patient, intelligent young man. Soft spoken, peaceful, friendly, sorrowful, and courageous. I wasn't surprised when he said what house he belonged to. He was a perfect image of the hero I once imagined.

He wasn't handsome at that time. I wouldn't say so. He had gentle, sloping lines of his face, delicate tawny curls, sad eyes, and long fingers. He was almost feminine. The warlike werewolf inside snatched away the factor that pushed him into the edge of "pretty". I wasn't. I was just as I am now, minus the wrinkles and spots. My excessive eyebrows may have come from the strange condition of my birth. I always thought that.

Remus didn't have anything extra. He had a few thin scar and one black bruise on his knee. Otherwise he had no distinguishable factors of his secret. I don't know, to this day, what exactly gave each of us away. Powerful magic lies below it.

Remus' friends never learned about me. I had a feeling I was a very special friend to him. I was his reliable phantom. Someone no one else could see. He wasn't greedy, I'm not saying that, but he had found joy in someone that was all to himself. Someone he didn't have to share. He didn't voice these opinions, never. But I knew.

Arthur grinned. "No, I wasn't his lover. I was his friend."

"I know!" Hermione said. She touched her cheek and felt that it was hot.

Arthur was amused. Not flattered. Not disgusted. Simply amused by the notion. He tilted his head to the side, lightly.

"After that, Mother allowed me the use of her fat, old owl to send letters to him. I don't have much to say on him. You know him well. You know how he kept the secret of his wife." Arthur made an expression Hermione couldn't decipher.

He stood, pushing his desk chair back.

"Let's take a walk outside while I tell you the third part. It'll get stuffy in here."

Hermione agreed, taking her notepad and floating quill. She stopped when Arthur raised his hand. He said something, twitching his wand. She stared in awe. She kept her notepad with her, but she recognized the spell. The quill would stay here taking notes, no matter where the speakers were. She thought it was a breech of magic.

The tired look on Arthur's face from using that spell told her it was better not to ask.

She followed him out the door, down to the gardens.