Prologue / You Were The First
You were the fist
The first of many. Impressions, dreams, meetings, poets – The first before the last, before the middle, before the idea of a beginning comes to mind. The first who decides not to rhyme, the first who decides that keys are made to be used, that there is defiance in testing the fates, that the gods are meant to be challenged; that poetry is for the weak and tortured instead of the battered but brave – because you were the first who admitted it. To my face. In the safety of the breath we shared that one morning in April before the sun clawed its way up the sky: That you were too afraid to fight. And maybe I was as well – afraid that is. But you stood alone with your confession, alone with a bleeding heart, alone the day you were supposed to die - that came much later.
There was no response on my lips, no validation in my eyes, only a silence that would shatter us both; the bond we carefully crafted between the silence of a couple of hundred mornings spent.
And in the madness that was us, in the careful quiet that was me, in the capturing betrayal that was you – we never made it to the shore.
The first you’ll stay. At least to me. Forever for me. The first to jump, the first to fly, the first to burn – but after all, the first and only poet out of us both.
- With love, R J Lupin (1980)
The first time Remus Lupin’s eyes ever caught notice of the blond, unassuming boy in Slytherin robes was at the beginning of his third year.
On the first of September 1973, just like every other year, countless families crowded King’s Cross Station, making it hard for Remus to get through to the train amid their tearful farewells.
He kept his head down the entire way, squared his bony shoulders, and used his recent growth spurt to press forward through the crowd until he finally managed to land a foot on the steps of the Hogwarts Express, breathing hard and fighting the impulse to ram his entire body weight into the next person who dared to inconvenience him on his way to the usual compartment.
Lifting his heavy and battered trunk—and eventually himself—into the warmth of the train, Remus paid little mind to the antics of other students around him. In fact, anything that didn’t concern his massive headache, caused by the steady approach of the moon, or his safe arrival at the dingy compartment filled with his chattering friends appeared utterly insignificant to him.
Therefore, he was not prepared for the arrival of three students dressed in green and black, who weaved strategically through the masses and crept up on him the moment he boarded the train. With burning limbs and another approaching headache, Remus was completely focused on manoeuvring his sparse belongings through the narrow corridor between the bathroom stalls - when a hand grabbed him from behind and pulled him with such force into one of the small rooms that his head collided with the doorframe in the process. Groaning from the abrupt addition of pain, Remus swiveled his head from side to side, trying to regain his orientation, as a fist collided with his jaw, sending another wave of exploding pain through his entire body. His warm blood soaked the crooked collar of his shirt as he blindly tried to pull himself up on the toilet seat in a desperate attempt to regain his footing, just as the next kick hit him square in the ribs and made him topple over, collapsing unconsciously on the filthy floor.
It could have been hours that went by until Remus opened his eyes again, his hands and legs sticky from various nasty fluids covering the cold bathroom floor, and his entire body aching from pain. First, he blinked against the tears and then the rage that flared up in him as he slowly came round again. Everything hurt, from his head to his left ankle, a cascade of pain spikes and throbbing numbness that came dangerously close to pulling him back into unconsciousness with every wave.
He sank his head against the hard wall at his back in agony and let out a string of curses into the lingering darkness of the room. He was so frustrated and angry about the gnawing feeling of helplessness that threatened to rip him apart from the inside that he didn’t notice the cowering figure right in front of him.
A muttered cleaning spell pulled him straight out of his rage. And with another wave of spring-scented magic, a soft light illuminated the narrow bathroom stall, confirming Remus’s dawning suspicion that his attackers had left behind one of their own to finish the mission.
He reached for his wand momentarily, his pain forgotten, only to find the pocket of his torn coat empty, leaving him defenseless at the mercy of his opponent. A moment passed in which Remus contemplated attacking the blonde boy with his fists, but just as quickly he concluded, that without his wand, he was entirely at a disadvantage - especially in his poor physical state.
The throbbing in his head intensified as he waited for the inevitable blow, but the other boy didn’t move—he kept his wand unwaveringly raised between them, eyeing him with a wary expression and a slightly pained twist on his lips. “You’re a half-blood then?” he said, his voice steady but high-pitched, as he angled his head to the side. And it dawned on Remus then that this boy in front of him couldn’t be older than twelve, with the way his robes nearly engulfed him and the unpracticed manner in which he held his wand up between them. He was merely a child, judging by the few details Remus could make out in the soft light on his face—big green eyes, soft blond brows, and round cheeks that would soon give way to the aristocratic jaw that lurked beneath.
A new wave of confidence built up in Remus as he regarded the second-year Slytherin with calculated interest. “And so what if I am? Are you going to hex me?” he snarled at the younger boy, pulling himself up against the wall until he towered over him, staring daringly into his big pale eyes. The boy seemed small when straightened up as well, meeting Remus’s eyes in an infuriatingly honest manner. “No, but I would like to clean your shirt, if that’s alright with you,” the boy told him unflinchingly, sounding so sincere in his irritatingly formal request that it hit Remus like a blow. Out of everything he could have said-
Probably interpreting the stunned silence of the older boy as a silent form of approval, the blonde proceeded to make good on his word and cast a variety of spells over Remus’s torn robes in a concentrated tone.
“I would appreciate it if you could refrain from mentioning this encounter to anyone,” the other boy stated after finishing his spellwork, leaving behind the faintest magical trace of a soft morning glow.
Pulled in an instant from his confusion, Remus was almost glad that this strange interaction had returned to the familiar ground of house rivalry and the expected amount of calculation in the Slytherin boy’s words. He honestly wouldn’t have known what to do if this kid had turned out to be a decent human being after everything he had gone through since boarding the train.
With a half-laugh, half-snarl, he positioned himself even more threateningly in front of the boy. “You must be a yob to think that there won’t be any consequences for pulling some bloody shit like this.”
The blonde only shrugged his shoulders, holding Remus’s stare with impressive calmness. “You’re welcome to get back at them. In fact, I encourage you to do just that. But maybe, if you could not mention it to the teachers—” Remus cut him off with a humorless snort. “And spare them from their punishment? Yeah, I don’t think so.”
A moment of tense silence settled between them—wide light eyes opposed to unforgiving hazel, staring each other down. But in the end, when the younger boy nodded and proceeded to lower his wand light, Remus had to admit to himself that he kind of respected the blonde’s behavior.
And when he turned to leave, resting his palm against the door handle, the older boy almost wanted to know why he had asked him not to say anything. But he didn’t. Instead, he watched him open the door silently, expecting the younger boy to leave, expecting him to slip into the corridor with hurried steps, disappearing into a nearby compartment. But yet again, he stood corrected, as the second-year halted in his departure and turned around with the hint of a smile pulling at his lips. “I’m Evan, by the way.”
And with that, he was gone, carried away by soundless steps, leaving Remus behind in the tiny bathroom stall, confused and progressively becoming aware of the blooming bruises on his jaw and ribs.
For a moment, Remus hesitated, unsteady on his feet and unsure how to proceed, but eventually becoming aware of the absence of his belongings. He left the bathroom decisively, methodically going through possible hiding places for enormous trunks in his head, simultaneously plotting revenge against the Slytherins, as he found his belongings neatly stacked against the opposite wall of the next bathroom.
And he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that only a few minutes before, they had been lying scattered across the floor.
The first time Evan Rosier ever noticed the brown-haired, scarred boy in black and red robes was on Wednesday, the first of September, 1972. His first day of school. Ever.
He was eleven years old, huddled close to his parents—or to be precise, his mother. His father stood nearby, turned away, nodding along to a conversation with the Blacks. Politics, it appeared, could not wait—not even for his son’s first day of school. The warmth of his mother’s gentle touch was everything Evan needed though, her soft words whispered into his ear so his father wouldn’t hear them. The head of the noble House of Rosier didn’t appreciate the sentiments his wife shared with her children; he deemed them unnecessary coddling and a hindrance to their proper upbringing. He was rarely found at the manor though, too involved with debates at the Ministry to notice the loving way his wife taught their children the subtle arts of communication, literature, and basic spell and potions work.
So, on the sunny day of his and his older sister’s departure, Evan didn’t interrupt his father’s conversation and instead let his gaze wander, comforted by the reassuring touch of his mother’s hands on his shoulders.
King’s Cross was overwhelming for the ordinary eye to take in; too many bodies moved in and out of Evan’s vision for him to keep up with the details of the scene unfolding before him. He focused on the blur instead, standing still in his mother’s arms and tuning out the conversation nearby, when the narrow frame of a young boy caught his attention. He moved with a practiced precision through the gaps of the ever-moving crowd on the platform, his head down and his arms wrapped tightly around a large trunk that seemed to be falling apart, its wheels jumping every few steps as he pushed it through the crowd. From a distance, Evan could make out silver lines that seemed to cover the boy’s skin wherever it was exposed to the bright sunlight of that warm September day.
There was something about the boy that captivated Evan, making it impossible for him to look away. He was transfixed, drawn in by the efficiency with which the boy controlled his worn trunk without bumping into anyone. It seemed, even, as if he was deliberately avoiding contact with the people around him. And in the direct sunlight, those silver lines glowed, overshadowing the golden freckles dusting his skin.
A strange feeling rose in Evan’s stomach as he watched the boy disappear through one of the many doors of the Hogwarts Express, and a slight hint of melancholy overcame him as, with the boy’s disappearance, his surroundings began to melt into a blur again.
Like poetry. That was what his mother had told him when he had asked her how all his favourite authors came up with the ideas for their novels:
“They write what they know.”
“So I have to know a lot, so that I can become a writer?” he had asked her then, when he was five years old and cuddled up in a blanket with her in front of the fireplace in his room, where she would always read him his favorite stories.
“No, and yes, darling. You will live your life and you will experience everything so very deeply that someday, you will encounter something or someone that will inspire you so much, that you will start writing your own stories.”
“Can’t I just start now? I know how to write, I’ve been practicing my letters,” Evan had objected, but his mother had only smiled, ruffling a hand through his hair.
“You can always write, my love. But I mean the stories from your heart. I mean poetry. It’s the kind of story that you’ll need external inspiration for.”
“How do I know if something is going to make me write poetry, Maman?” Evan had asked with a scrunched-up brow.
“You will find it in the smallest things, just the tiniest bits of magic. You will feel your heart sing—that’s how you know it’s poetry.”
And as Evan heard the blurred masses in front of him slowly approaching the train, he looked up at his mother’s warm smile and leaned in closer, hugging her tightly. Before he let go of her though, before he took his trunk and made his way over to the train, before he settled down in a compartment with his quiet friend Regulus, a loud boy named Barty and his sister sitting close by, he whispered into his mother’s ear: “I saw the sun shining in silver lines today, Maman. I think I saw poetry.”