Brothers

Canada, early 2008, the very same night

That night, Sirius and I went out onto the terrace without a word, our coats and hats on, with hot water bottles in the inside pockets of our down jackets. We built another campfire and settled into our makeshift seats, looking up at the stars. The sky was magnificent on a night so dark in our hearts, not a cloud could be seen. It was just us, the treetops and the stars. The crackling fire filled the silence so that we didn't have to talk, because we'd become so bad at communicating. I was losing patience with this brother I loved so much and I didn't know how to tell him how I felt. I didn't know how to listen to him any more. And I think it was the same for him. We had become strangers. And those beautiful stars to which we owed our names filled me with a courage that I no longer knew myself when it came to Sirius.

"Tell me about him. Tell me about them. Tell me about you. I want to know all about you and Remus and your friends. Tell me who you are Sirius."

He laughed, surprised. 

"My name is Sirius Orion Black, but my friends call me Padfoot or Pads. My little brother calls me Siri. I was born on 3 November 1959 in Islington at 12, Grimmauld Place and I'm currently 48. I've created a magazine specialising in music, especially rock, a magazine I've called The Rock Riot. It's quite popular and I earn a fairly good living. I'm in a relationship with... with a man called Remus John Lupin. He's the most incredible of all poets, the most sarcastic of all thinkers, the most aggressive of all pacifists, he's the Salvatore of my thoughts. He's proud and sarcastic and cynical, and sometimes he needs to bite off more than he can chew just by talking, but he's also the most clear-sighted of deniers, the wisest of the crazy but also the craziest of the wise. He is respectful, but he would lead to sedition anyone who listened to what he had to say. He thinks and he lives, he thinks therefore he lives, he thinks therefore he is. He has a voice to bewitch all those who need guidance, and he knows how to use it to cry out and to love. He's able to explain to you that no one owes you a good life but you, who are self-centred and have been taught that people owe you the world because of your name. He knows what's what and reserves the same things for everyone. He's discreet and quiet but he's the voice of rebellion. He'd smile in front of the teachers and promise that he hadn't taken part in any of our pranks, when in fact he was the mastermind behind all our plans. And you want to shout at him as much as you want to kiss him. You wake up every morning and you just want to show him that you're there, that you exist and that he needs to see you. And he does see you, he always sees you, but he doesn't say it very often. Because like every tortured poet, he has a wall around his heart that hides the most beautiful smile, the most joyful laughter and the most intoxicating eyes that could ever exist. He sees you, so you live. He listens to you so you sing. He loves you, so you love yourself. Remus is magic. He's everything that's wonderful in this world, but he'll never realise it. He could live on cigarettes, over-sweetened coffee and books if he had the chance, and I'm sure he already does. He has the voice, the eyes, the smile, the laugh and the intelligence. He has beauty and knowledge. He has everything, but he still manages to be a bit miserable. He has a number of complexes that only make him more beautiful and attractive. He has these little freckles on his shoulders and face, and also a little on his neck and arms; he has little scars on his face and he limps because part of him has refused to be healed. Since he was 16, he looks like he's 70. He is incredibly kind, especially to animals and children, and he has the power to love as much as he has the power to be loved. He plays bass and sings like a god, but he'll always find a way to say it's because the rest of the band is good. You tell him he looks happy and he'll tell you it's an optical illusion caused by the light. He's got this eloquence that's a gift from heaven, despite his Welsh accent that sometimes makes him incomprehensible when he's grumbling. He has this gentle, affectionate mockery in his voice that makes you feel like you're burning up inside. You look at him and wonder whether you love him or want to be him, and the answer will be somewhere in the middle, and that's normal because he's Remus. It's his effect, his scent, his power. He intoxicates people without realising it and becomes the Casanova of our hearts. He believes that he cannot be loved by others, when in fact it is he who teaches us to love. He teaches us to feel. He is the artist, the work and the muse. And I think that's why I've loved him from day one. Remus is everything. He is everything. Love, hate, friendship, enmity, jealousy, desire, joy, anger, admiration, disgust, interest, calm, revolution, rock, classical music, wonder, fear, nostalgia and discovery."

And Sirius stopped there, breathless with love, leaving me speechless. Never in my life, apart from in films or books, had I heard anyone speak so well. And I laughed, because I was overwhelmed and a little panicked. I'd never liked anyone the way Sirius liked Remus, and that scared me a little. Well, Sirius, you poor old thing, you who didn't trust humans, you've really fallen in love.

"Wow," I breathed out in the cold and dark as my brother laughed beside me.

"Don't ever tell him I said that, he'll die of instant embarrassment."

We'd fallen silent, and were looking up at the stars in silence. I could almost see his words rising towards the moon, in a sumptuous abstract celestial serenade.

"Tell me about the others," I almost begged. "Tell me about the ones who have forged you over the years."

He smiled, his eyes reflecting the Milky Way that we could see so well here, far from the pollution of the cities.

"There's James Fleamont Potter. He's the biggest lover boy, even more than me. He's unwaveringly dynamic, even at five in the morning in the middle of the Scottish countryside. He's funny and naive and kind and he loves. And his love is as stormy as a tempest, because having known only the unconditional love of his parents as an only child, he has this need to love and be loved. He hurts himself with his love because people are afraid of the fiercest of fires. So he has learnt to temper his love, to be less confining and to understand that some people don't love him and never will. But he's always ready to help, he who holds out the stick of his own love to be beaten by those who can't stand that kind of love. But he's the nicest guy you've ever met in your fucking life. He's brave and sympathetic, he always has a solution for others but never for himself, he has a joke that really makes you laugh for all situations. You'd think from looking into his eyes that you could read him like an open book, but somehow he always manages to surprise you. And as soon as he has an idea, any idea that his mama's boy brain can come up with, he'll always have that same twinkle in his eyes, behind his round glasses. He can be calm, but his hair will tell you he's as fiery as the wind. He is never tired, not even after a two-hour soccer training session in the rain and mud, to the lamentations of the team of which he is captain, even though it was his second training session of the day. He is the king of the ball as much as he is the king of the pitch. He is adulated. He's adored because he's respectful and kind, with a smile as warm as the sun. And he will never be ashamed of a victorious speech in Hindi from his father or a hug from his mother in the middle of the pitch, in the middle of the crowd. He feels everything deep in his heart, and for every problem he has a solution and a Hispanic song taught to him by his mother. He is loyal in friendship and love, but this sometimes turns against him. He has a deep sense of justice that sometimes leads him astray, but I've always been behind him whenever he's turned round to smash people's faces in. He's a bit like the knight in the children's story, only better. And he's a wonderful father. I swear, every time his son Harry finished a school year, James was there, in tears, watching his son grow up with the proudest look on his face. I swear, Reggie, in my eyes it's impossible not to love James Potter, the one and only Sun of our lives. He's so loving and endearing, he's like a little puppy. If I didn't already have you as my only brother, I'd point to him every time someone asked me if I was a brother. As well as being the perfect man, the bastard plays guitar superbly, and his voice lends itself superbly to the Mexican music he sings all the time."

He caught his breath, because Sirius was also spouting off. The bastard had kept this fucking talent from me.

"And then there's Peter Oskar Pettigrew. He hides his game well. He always looks soft and shy but this guy is tough, I swear. His naive air gives him the power to never be suspected, but he's as reckless as James, as thoughtful as Remus and better at chess than I am. And yes, it even happens to me, the best, to be beaten by Petey boy. On top of that power, this guy is really talented. He draws and plays drums like a legend. He's so good with his ten fingers, this guy can do anything! If he had any confidence in himself and his talent, Jesus, he'd surpass Michelangelo and Raphael, even Leonardo da Vinci. But I don't know who put that petty fucking voice in the back of his head, because I swear it ruins everything. People confuse him or compare him to a wallflower because they think Peter is invisible but this guy is everywhere and more talented than any of them. Peter, he's a fucking sunflower, he's always growing somewhere where we can see him shine and grow. I'm sure that when you're walking around London you've seen one of his tags! He puts it everywhere and it's fucking beautiful. He does a lot of flowers and plants because he says it makes people feel better, and I'm happy to believe him. If you want to look when you get home, he signs his tags with the name 'Wormtail'. Looking for him through all his ephemeral paintings in the maze of London is like getting to know you. It's like looking for yourself. You discover yourself little by little. That's the power of Petey. He's sensitive, aware of the world and how it works. So he soothes the lost souls he can save with his precious paintings. He must cherish that talent, I swear. When we were younger, I kind of forced him to give me a tattoo of a rose climbing up and wrapping itself around my right leg. He was terrified of messing up when he had gold in his hands. And do you know what? He finally gave in and it's one of the most beautiful tattoos I've ever had! Afterwards, the whole band got a flower of their choice tattooed by Peter and this talented guy, graced with the art himself, was all blushes when we told him how beautiful his work is. I'm sure his daughters will be as fucking talented as he is! It's in their blood, as Petey's wife Hilde is a painter too! Imagine, Reggie, you're talented and your wife is just as talented, but you hide away and avoid confrontation, you're afraid of remarks and words. Sometimes it pisses me off, but I love that little Peter so much. Honestly, I was lucky to be in their dorm because they may be tossers, but they're brilliant! All of them!  Even the cynical Remus who is embarrassed by any compliment, even James who already knows how incredible he is but wants to hear it said and even Peter who is so terrified of being put forward and revealing himself as he displays his art, his person, all over London! God, I love these idiots!" 

And I laughed again, because it all seemed so rational but so bizarre, almost abnormal.

"Blimey Siri, are you in love with ALL your friends?" I laughed. "Fuck, I hope Remus isn't the possessive type or anything!"

A burst of laughter escaped Sirius, crystallising in the icy black night but soon his mood turned dark again.

"I was 13 when I met them Reggie, and they taught me how to love. Not our parents or fucking adults, no, they were pre-teens who taught me to love myself and accept that I loved. And all this reminded me of us in the forest. Of us, Reggie, and our broken love. Because no one had taught us to love, no one had loved us. But us Reg, we loved each other because our hearts had found the way to love in the purest freedom. But once that was taken away from us, what was left of us? Nothing. Not even our childlike love. Because we were just fucking children, and we were young, and we didn't know how to love properly. So here we are now, in another forest, because we have this picturesque need to be surrounded by trees to be able to understand that we love our brother."  

And his rage echoed in my thoughts, in my heart. His words found an ear that understood. And that sent a chill up my spine and gave me goose bumps. My fingers trembled and I scraped the snow beneath my seat with my fingertips. Sirius had found the right words to make me understand, to make me be there. To make me vibrate on the same wave as him, that of anger and despair. But it made my stomach churn and I felt sick. Terribly sick.

"There were no trees at Eton?" I asked him, my whisper like reasoning between us.

"What?"

I cleared my throat. I clenched my fists. And I'd start again.

"There were no trees at Eton? Were there no trees where you could remember your little brother that you loved so much in the forest? Were there no trees that would have allowed you to answer all the shitty fucking letters I sent you practically every day?"

I tried to swallow back the sobbing and grief that my words were hiding. But the scene became electric. Across from me, Sirius straightened up to look at me. But the sound of his voice didn't sound sorry, or angry, he sounded surprised, completely helpless.

"What are you talking about, Regulus? What letters? Why are you talking to me about Eton as if I were there?"

"Don't lie to me Sirius! I know you were there! Mother swore to me that-"

And the realisation hit me. Sirius hadn't gone to Eton, as Mother had told me all those years ago. She had lied to me. Sirius must have understood too, in a way. We'd been betrayed by our parents again, driving us further apart than ever before.

"But..." began Sirius. "If you thought I was at Eton, that means you weren't a student there either..."

I shook my head in disbelief.

"Mother told you I was a fucking King's Scholar or an Oppidan Scholar?!"

"Yes. But did she tell you I was?"

I nodded, unable to comprehend the magnitude of that. The magnitude of this lie. Our parents' lie.

"But..." I breathed into the night, which had grown colder and colder inside my lungs. "Where did you go? Which school?"

Sirius crossed his arms and put them on his knees, holding his head at the same time. His gaze was plunged into the flames of the campfire.

"I don't think you've heard of it, it's called Black Lake Academy. It's in a godforsaken corner of the-"

"The Highlands" I breathed out, exhaling my last breath of air as I felt as if someone was repeatedly punching me in the stomach. I couldn't catch my breath, breathless under the stars. It made me sick, I wanted to vomit, I wanted to rip my skin off. I felt like I was drowning, just like that, in my brain.

"Do you know it?" asked Sirius, surprised. "Gosh, I didn't think it was so well known. I know the school's pretty well-known in bourgeois circles but I didn't think you knew about it, seeing as Mother had lied to you."

"I went to Aranshire School," I cut him off.

And the way he froze, I knew he understood. He'd understood the vices that went through our parents' minds, who only thought of separating us to bring us down. They'd lied to us, putting blindfolds over our eyes, when in reality they'd put us right next to each other. I wanted to cry. To melt under my brother's eyes.

"But... it's the school right near..."

I nodded silently. I'd been so close to him all these years, just a few miles away. I could have walked to see him. I could have seen him, we could have escaped together, again, leaving the world behind to hide on the Scottish plains. It could have been possible. It could have been possible if an adult had wanted to help us, if my father had found my mother's little games too cruel. It could have been possible if our parents had loved us. It made me sick.

I vomited, in front of my brother, but it was more bile from resentment and lies than a real illness. The snow and the stars were witnesses to our bitterness and misfortune. But I turned back to my brother again, because I had this visceral need to know. To suffer.

"So you were going to Hog's Head?" I asked, in a barely audible whisper.

Sirius looked at me.

"Well, most of the time I went to the Three Broomsticks, but there were times when I went to Hog's Head..." he admitted in a whisper.

We both froze, crushed by the discovery and what it implied. Sirius and I could have had many opportunities to see each other, but we never did. We were so convinced that the other was at Eton that we didn't notice, even though there were times when we both had to be at Hogsmeade at the same time. We were alone, we thought we were alone, surrounded by our friends but 'far' from our brother, when in fact we were right next door, missing everything the other was doing, everything the other was experiencing. We were lost, silent, looking up at the stars as the only unbroken landmark in the muddle that was our paltry lives.

"At least you were well surrounded," I whispered to him, because I thought so. Far from the eyes, close to the heart, as they used to say. But I was always reassured to know that my brother wasn't alone, he never liked that and it didn't suit him. I, on the other hand, didn't mind being alone. 

"What about you Reggie, were you well looked after? Was there anyone there for you on Aranshire?"

"Several, yes," I nodded, a slight smile on my face.

"Tell me about them then," Sirius asked, surely wanting us to think about something else.

"First, there's Bartemius Taddeo Crouch Jr. We call him Barty because he hates his first name and his father, Bartemius Sr. He has the mental age of a teenager but he's actually a lot smarter than he'll ever let on. He's covered in tattoos and piercings, he has the head of a punk with more hair on his head, but he could quote you all the greatest names in literature, be they English, Italian, French, Greek, Russian, German, American, Spanish, Mexican, or from any other country in the world. He shouts and shouts the loudest, but he has one of the sharpest minds I know. When he put his mind to it, it was incredible to compete academically against him. He speaks English, Latin, Greek and Italian, and he's learning multitudes of other languages in secret, because he's ashamed of his knowledge and intellectual abilities, as if he thinks it's shattering his punk image, when I think it's actually strengthening it. You're not just a punk physically, you're also a punk mentally. He has every capacity to shine and he could easily have gone to the best universities in the world if he'd just put his mind to it. He's a big mama's boy too, even though his mother died a long time ago. He's a tattooist now and lives in Camden Town. He's a bit of a cliché at first glance, but turns out to be extremely likeable and always there for his friends. He's got an overflowing love of his own but he doesn't know how to handle it very well, so he plays hard to get, showing his muscles, but we all know that he loves us deeply and we love him deeply too. At Aranshire, he was an Aquila, which shows the extent of his abilities and knowledge. I find him fascinating and very interesting and love having serious conversations with him. He could have made one hell of a tortured poet, a bit like Charlie Dalton, feisty and outgoing, as an image to hide a thought process so deep you get the impression he's absorbing himself with doubt and questioning. Truly a character. But he really is my best male friend."

Like my brother earlier, I caught my breath. I'd said all that without pausing, in a burst of gratitude to Barty, and I surprised myself. Across the way, I could see Sirius smiling, probably imagining what Barty was like in his head. He hoped that by looking at the starry vault he would find the image of Barty. I continued on about my friends:

"Then there are the twins. First, the eldest, Pandora Faiza Rosier. Well, now that she's married, she's called Lovegood instead of Rosier. How can I describe Pandora? She's amazing. Really weird but amazing. It's as if, instead of being human, she's a volatile, almost unreal concept. She's literally faery. She sees things you don't necessarily see, but I think that strangeness runs in the family, even her daughter is quite strange. But she's incomparably kind. She notices the smallest, most minute details, the ones you hide. She assimilates them and understands them. She takes care of them. She's magical too. She seems to have a surreal connection with nature. If you go to a park with her, she'll immediately be approached by all the animals in the area, I swear it's crazy! She has such an aura about her, she emanates something so gentle and sensitive that you're entranced by her, but not entranced as if she were a mermaid, but rather as if she were serenity itself. I swear, Pandora isn't a human being, she's a concept. And the same goes for her twin brother, Evan Yazid Rosier. I swear, those two were an amazing pair. They complemented each other so much. They were both creepy, but Pandora is a softer version, while Evan looks completely crazy, I swear. I'm convinced they're from another planet, they're so whimsical! When I manage to decipher their way of thinking, their cerebral processes, I swear, I'm sure I'll develop superpowers or I'll witness paranormal things. It's as if the twins have their eyes riveted on the veils that conceal all the mysteries of this world, while at the same time living in what we insignificant, blind mortals think is the only world in existence. They are omniscient characters, they know everything, they see everything, they just don't talk about it all the time. Sometimes Pandora cries about her dreams, because she often thinks they're real, and this may sound strange to you, but I'm sure they really do have strange abilities. Their little brother is like that too, and yet they're nine years apart! I've never met their mother, she died in labour when she gave birth to Felix, but I've already met their father and I can assure you that they've inherited all this calm madness from him, because he's a completely lunatic guy. He looks like he's taken drugs 24 hours a day, but he's still really nice. Thakar Rosier is crazy in a weird way. He runs an antiques museum specialising in torture and cursed objects. Now he's running it with Felix, because he's getting on in years, although I'm sure he's going to hit 120. He's in impeccable physical condition for his age. He practises karate, krav maga and kung fu, and is a black belt! He taught his children ways of defending themselves from any attack they might suffer, because the poor old man knew full well that his children could suffer the worst because of their skin colour or their oddity, and sometimes, when I watched them at school, acting and living, I could feel the hypothetical violence of their learning, but they never really used it. Evan often fought, but I knew that what he inflicted on his opponents was so weak compared to what he could have done to them. Pandora and Evan, when I first met them, they could explain to you by heart the anatomy of the human body and which are the most sensitive points. They could explain to me how to dissect a body or animals or how to torture someone like in the Middle Ages. At a young age, they also knew about voodoo. They were all at once soft and dangerous, aware of everything and anything, telling you which pupils were condemned to which fates or which pupil was being followed by an entity, whether malignant or not. They also had an amazing knowledge of astronomy and botany. They knew all about the phases of the moon, its influence and the benefits of everything within their reach. They were brimming with knowledge in the most far-fetched of fields, but to be honest, Sirius, if I'd had to tell our secret to anyone right from the start, I'd have entrusted it to them. 100%. They were the most underestimated of the Aquile and the Serpenti. Nowadays, Pandora is a healer, but she also does a lot of science, and a bit of what you might call alchemy. She lives with her daughter and husband in Cornwall."

"What about Evan?" asked Sirius when he realised there was no follow-up to my tirade.

"He..." I swallowed hardly. "He died the summer after we graduated. He and Barty got into a bar fight with a drunk grown man. When they ran out of the bar, the guy followed them and attacked them, by surprise. He took a knife with him and aimed it at Evan. He died instantly. Barty was luckier; he got away with a scar on his arm and torso. But I thought he was going to go mad, I really did. The group fell apart a bit at that point. We were blinded by our grief and our anger, our frustration. Barty and I, as immature boys, had sworn to find the guy and kill him, which Pandora and our other friend didn't want to do at all. They were scared we'd get killed too. So we argued a lot and didn't see much of each other, but a year after the incident, the guy was killed in an alleyway in Manchester, and Barty and I had to give up. It was all for the best in the end. We went back to the girls, swallowed our pride and they forgave us, even though it was hard for them too. It was very hard for Pandora but when her daughter was born, she calmed down. By the way, if you must know, her adorable and eccentric daughter is called Luna Evanna Lovegood. And now both of them assure us very firmly that Pandora is followed by a white halo that protects her, and they're intimately convinced that it's Evan's soul. And I believe them, because they're always right, up there in their heads."

"I'm truly sorry for you Reggie."

His words were sucked away by the cold. Thinking about it all brought back strange feelings in me.

"What about your other friend?" asked Sirius, bringing me back to the topic of conversation.

"The last one, the icing on the cake, is Dorcas Zaida Meadowes. Along with me and Evan, she was a Serpente at Aranshire. She-"

"Dorcas Meadowes? Her name rings a bell..."

His sentence surprised me, because Dorcas wasn't a celebrity or anything like that, they weren't even at the same school, her and Sirius.

"I don't think you know her. But honestly, I think you two would get on really well, she's really funny, even if she prefers to play the mystery woman. On the other hand, her partner was in Black Lake, but I don't know which house. She's about the same age as you, she's blonde but I think it's dyed, she wears pretty good make-up, I think she's a soccer coach now. Her name is-"

"Marlene McQuinnon."

And I looked at him surprised. And once again he straightened up in his seat to talk to me.

"Earlier," he continued. "I introduced you to Remus, James and Peter. But it's not just the four of us, it's the girls too. Lily Jane Evans, now Potter; Mary Janice MacDonald and Marlene Peou McQuinnon."

Fuck. We had even more bonds that should have brought us together over the years, but nope. Because fate had decided otherwise for both of us, cursed with hanging around each other without ever seeing each other, frequenting the same places without ever meeting. And a sob, drowned in a moan, came out of my throat against my will.

The universe was against us. Even the stars were looking down on us, laughing in misery. Hell, if I'd read that in a book, I wouldn't have cared about the near-zero chance of it all happening. I would never, ever have believed it possible. Sirius and I were cursed. Bloody hell, what had we done to be doomed like this?