The Kingfisher Boy by carondelet

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Drama
Relationships: Lily & James
Book: Lily & James, Books 1 - 5
Published: 08/06/2005
Last Updated: 10/06/2005
Status: Completed

[completed; non-canonical] I have little use for such useless information, but there it is. The
finest evidence of the course of my life. I am the repository of impractical erudition and
faithless acts.




1. The Kingfisher Boy
---------------------

**Rating:** PG-13 for angst and adult themes.

**Title:** The Kingfisher Boy

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned
by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books,
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for
entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. Additionally,
locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality"
or in a purely fictitious manner.

**Spoiler Alert:** Books 1-5.

**Summary:** I have little use for such useless information, but there it is. The finest
evidence of the course of my life. I am the repository of impractical erudition and faithless
acts.

**Pairings:** James/Lily

**Author's Notes:** James and Lily is invoked. It is more a character study of Remus
Lupin and the possibility that he might have had feelings for Lily Evans. No comments or reviews
are necessary.

*A fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi.*

**_______________________________________________**

**THE KINGFISHER BOY**

[] AND HERE I AM SINGING, WISH YOU WERE HERE

**_______________________________________________**

**In one text,** he is named Bron.

In another, he is named Anfortas.

In yet another, he is named Pelles.

Yet another lays claim to his being Joseph of Armiathea.

He was the Fisher King. He could have been the Maimed King.

Sir Percivale, with what would nowadays been deemed an insignificant failure, caused the Fisher
King pain. Unnecessary pain.

I am familiar with such conditions. Unnecessary pain. Yes, I am familiar.

I am not neither a fisherman nor a king. The best that I could claim is being the Kingfisher
Boy. No, I am no king; I am, however, maimed.

I once was a professor. A teacher. I miss it, my vocation. I miss many things.

I miss...yes. I am always missing, amn’t I. Missing and regretting and wallowing in my
guilt.

For such indulgences I cry bitter tears.

I always found it easier to weep than to rage.

I left the anger for others.

For my inadequacies I cry simple tears.

I cry for those whom I wish were here.

I can tell you the tale of the Fisher King. I can tell you many tales of many things.

I have little use for such useless information, but there it is. The finest evidence of the
course of my life. I am the repository of impractical erudition and faithless acts.

Wasted knowledge, a gift for only the grave.

Oh, I beg your pardon, how utterly rude of me. How do you do? I’m Remus John Lupin. Pleasure to
make your acquaintance. Would you mind if I told you a story?

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

**There seems to** be something in the way of a...school of thought, if you might pardon the
pun, as to who in our class had affections for our Head Girl, one Miss Lily Evans.

This school of thought seems to have been handed down at Hogwarts, like our legacy of the
Marauders’ Map. This way of thinking has become something of a mainstay, much like the Sorting Hat
and the Great Feast and winding up old Filchy by getting Moaning Myrtle to flood the girls'
loo.

For some reason, many students, former and current, have been given to entertaining the notion
that Severus Snape was enamoured of Lily.

Granted, Lily was a charming woman, marvellous in many ways, and she did indeed have something
of a following (horrible, horrible, that is too gauche a term), but Severus?

*Him?*

Mind you, I should have been a better Prefect, no, strike that, a better person all round and
should have put a stop or at least given Severus a reprieve from the constant thrashing he endured
from James and Sirius, but I do not think that Severus is capable of having any fluttering in his
greasy black heart for anyone, especially someone that he on numerous occasions referred to as
being a “Mudblood”.

No, the social gadflies of the time, of the there and then and of the here and now are quite
incorrect in that.

Severus could never have held a liking for Lily. Never.

James was unequivocally fond of her. Relentlessly so. He was a man possessed. I do believe that
was the initial stimulus that led to their courtship. He was besotted, she was sceptical, and that
drove him nutters.

Sometimes he could be so simple.

The more she rebuffed his advances, the more he pressed. Even when she dated other boys, he
persisted. He was, as much as James Potter could be, respectful of her relationships, but he was
always there, always hinting, always reminding her that, *hem hem*, he was far more suitable
for her than *Whatshisname*.

After a while, likely more to do with helping him gain his goal and thereby shutting him up than
being altruistic, Sirius Black would second James in his pursuit of Lily. Potter’s a decent bloke,
once you get to know him, get past the Jamie the Chaser feint and the Prongs the Marauder routine,
*hem hem*.

Thanks to the constantly vigilant ministrations of Messrs Potter and Black, Lily went through
about five boyfriends from Fifth Year through Sixth Year.

Yes, there were quite a few of us who were taken by Lily.

Oh dear.

I did say us, didn’t I.

Ah, well, there it is.

I suppose I shall have to surrender myself to innumerable clichés now.

But I am a cliché, amn’t I. I am the most painfully awkward illustration of it.

Poor old Lupin, Loony Moony Lupin, always sad, always melancholy, always sick, always alone.

Always pining, in secret, ever in secret. I have so many secrets. I have kept so many secrets.
All deep within my breast. There are secrets there still, hiding behind the beat of my heart. When
my memories stir, I can feel the secrets, sharp against me.

My memories are my secrets. My secrets are my memories. Both comprise my garland of shame, my
crown of thorns.

The pain from those thorns, the many memories and secrets associated with, on some eve’s they
are my only delight.

It amazes me that, despite this acutely personal pronouncement, you have not turned your back
nor have you walked away.

Yet. I should add that particular adverb. Yet.

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

**I’ve had a** number of fancies over the years.

I used to fancy Emmeline Vance. We even dated for a bit. Then we stopped and she began dating
the greater Prewett.

I once fancied Alice Pearson. But she had already been taken with Frank Longbottom.

I both fancied and feared Dorcas Meadowes. Dorcas wasn’t taken with anyone and wouldn’t let
anyone close to her.

I loved Lily Evans.

I don’t suppose you might have a violin upon you? I do feel that this is about where the solo
should come in.

I did love her. In my fashion. As much as I could when we were both claimed by others.

Lily was spoken for, one after the other, until, finally, she and James realised what the rest
of Hogwarts knew from at least the start of Fifth Year – they were falling for one another.

I had been claimed long ago by someone detached and cruel and without forgiveness. I can never
be...

Well. It was just not meant to be. It’s never meant to be. No, not for me. Not for Loony Lupin.
I can’t be intimate with another. Not for the long-term, at any rate. Certainly not during my time
of the month.

Oh, I am sorry. I don’t mean it quite like that. You see...yes, and this is where events take a
turn for the dicey.

I am a werewolf.

There it is. Yes. I am a werewolf.

I’m married to the moon. A child groom, you see. Unwillingly wed at a tender age.

So, now I hope that you can understand what I mean when I ask you, how in the world could I wish
to be with Lily Evans? Even if she and James weren’t together, how could I wish for such a thing?
Wish never to be apart from her? Wish to be close to her? Wish for such things when, at the close
of day, when the sun has fallen and the moonrise cloaks the Forbidden Forest in shadow play, how
could I wish for Lily’s love?

Of course, I wish for such a thing still. That is how pathetic I am at times. I imagine that I
will wish for such an awful thing ‘til the last beat of my heart.

Here and now, my soul cries out for continuing to entertain such a betrayal. The naked bones of
my guilt echo in the void that is the space within my heart, the place where the love of my
friends, my adopted brothers, my unrequited love, should reside. Such feelings should be there and
not trapped in the morass of my regret.

How is it that still you do not walk away? How is it that you don’t step away from me? I am
staggered.

I did tell you that I am pathetic at times, did I not?

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

**I daren’t ask** you if you believe in the afterlife. That would be terrifically insensitive
of me.

I once believed in heaven. I once thought that I had found it.

But I lost it. Or, rather, it lost me.

I thought that I could sustain myself, could convince myself that just to see Lily happy was
enough. To know that she was loved and to be happy for her and for one of my best mates, James,
that it was enough. That it was something akin to heaven, as close as I was likely to get.

I thought that I could be better than I was.

I thought that I had rationalised and that I had considered all there was in terms of my
feelings for Lily. That it was safe because she was already spoken for. It is always safer, falling
into unrequited love. There is no fear of rejection because the rejection is implicit. There is no
acceptance because it has been placed far, far out of reach. That it was understandable because of
her kindness and her friendship to me. That due to her very nature and the ease with which we were
able to communicate, that it was perfectly understandable that I would be susceptible to
misconstruing or developing that into a love for her. That, due to my condition and the loneliness
inherent, that anyone who was capable of reaching me and who was unafraid of who and what I was I
would be prone to falling for such a woman.

I thought that I had covered it all. That I’d thought of all there was. But I had not thought of
enough.

I thought that I had fully realised that most everything connected to my feelings for Lily were
not what they seemed. It merely felt and looked like love, it wasn’t really so. I was only seeing
the things that I wanted to see.

There were times in witnessing the happiness that James and Lily shared that I wished I could
just fly away. Hop on my broom and go some place. Float away.

Before I said the words I had to, was bound by friendship and duty and honour and morality to,
before I let slip the words I had to resist.

I wanted to fly away. Float away. Run away. Sigh. Breathe. Forget.

I didn’t want to remember then. I don’t want to remember now.

You think you know it, you think you are used to it, but no, the memories, the feelings, they
use you.

I saw so many things...missed out on so many opportunities...

I couldn’t cry over losing her. I turned away instead.

I didn’t want to see it after a while. I didn’t want to know the pain.

I just wanted to leave yesterday far behind me.

I did want to leave. I wanted another life. I’ve wanted another life since I was a boy. But
after I was struck, literally struck by the realisation that my feelings for Lily exceeded those of
friendship, I wanted another life with quiet desperation. I wanted to dream other dreams. I wanted
to change my name, give everything away.

And I would still give it all away. For a memory, a quiet lie.

Love. It’s a lie. An illusion. The future of an illusion isn’t so much religion as it is love
and the persistence thereof.

Get it completely right, Freud, you berk. Religion is an illusion but it isn’t religion that’s
keeping us from killing one another off in an attempt to survive, it’s love. We kill or don’t kill
one another over love. We hurt or don’t hurt one another in the name of love. Emotionally,
mentally, physically, for love of beauty, for love of a man or woman, for love of a coveted item or
ideal, we do it because of love.

Ah, yes. This is where my little confession takes a turn for the maudlin. I must warn you now of
this.

No, I am not drunk. I almost wish that I were. It would be easier then. This, this would all
make sense then, if I were arseholed.

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

**Love...it mocks** me. Taunts me. Like the moon on high. With her pale face gazing at me,
staring at me, dispassionately, on a cold tonight.

I had to leave my love behind. My feelings. My emotions. They died on the Dark Night. My love
for Lily perished in Godric’s Hollow. My kinship with James died there as well. My heart was
rendered broken by Sirius. My friend, Padfoot, perhaps the greatest of us all, thought that I had
been the one who was informing Voldemort of the Potters’ movements. My friend, Black, perhaps my
best friend, seemed to be the very one who had murdered Peter Pettigrew and had taken innocents
with him.

I haven’t cried since the Dark Night. Not even when it was revealed that Sirius was innocent,
that he didn’t betray James and Lily, that he didn’t kill Peter, that it was Wormtail, Pettigrew,
who had been the betrayer.

Not Sirius.

Not me.

Not entirely.

Only in thought. Never in deed.

I used to cry. I would not allow myself to feel anger; I would shed tears in anger’s stead.

I know the pain of leaving everything far behind.

If I could cry again, if I could live with the truth of it and with my sins, venial and mortal,
if I could live with what I did and didn’t do then...if there was a way, I would ask that I be
taken there. To back then. To back when I still believed in heaven and was still able to cry.

When I still loved, even though it was wrong, even though it was impossible. Even though Lily
and James loved one another.

When I still cried.

When I still believed in childish ideas and in three impossible things before breakfast.

No, I am not the Fisher King, but my memories and my guilt act as Sir Percivale and they cause
me unnecessary pain. I am not the Fisher King; I am merely the Kingfisher Boy. With a heart that is
altricial in nature, the walking wounded, bereft of sanctifying beliefs, of the relief of tears.
Singing the same song for the last sixteen years, singing to those I have lost, singing, *wish
you were here*.

I wish I remembered how to believe.

I wish I remembered how to cry.

I wish I could forget how I loved a girl.

I wish the memories and the secrets would fade. I wish my false hope in heaven would dissipate,
would finally die.

Heaven, goodbye.

**†**



