Chapter 5
There are times when the world stops, when it holds its breath, waiting in anticipation because something is about to change. Times when decisions, actions and consequences get so complicated that their lines blur, fade into each other that is gets impossible to tell which is which. Choices, choices; every hour, every minute of the day, one is swarmed by them. It is as if the clock has stopped ticking; time has stopped counting and nothing matters except for what is yet to come. The big change. Something is about to change .
The truth is, time stops for no one. Even when something that seems to be very important to someone is about to come, time will continue to flow effortlessly, the clock will continue to tick—blah, blah, blah, point taken. Even when we say the world has ended, it's a lie; the world is just as it always was. A rocky, terrestrial planet that keeps spinning around itself, that keeps spinning around the sun. When we say the world has ended, it's a lie; the earth is just fine. It is the person who said it that is not, in fact, 'just fine.'
This is what we call 'personal loss.'
Hm, that perhaps sounds over-complicated. It should be clarified, therefore, that personal loss is grief, or something as mundane as losing your apartment keys. That doesn't sound that bad, now, does it?
It does.
Let's specify grief, then. Not the basic stuff—five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance, blah, blah, blah, you know that, probably. Those are just names we give to the unnameable, and I'm just setting the tone. Now, if you ask google translate, it will say this: intense sorrow, especially caused by someone's death . But you are not asking google translate; if fact, I am asking you. What is grief?
Take your time; time passes slowly. Or it does not—it's up to you.
*
The end of something, the beginning of something else.
This is what Regulus thinks for the rest of the day. The end of something is the beginning of something else; the end of the night is the beginning of a new day; the beginning of the night is the end of the previous day—point taken. Probably. Hopefully. In any way, his conversation with Sirius on the phone goes like this:
Bip . . . bip . . .
Someone picks it up. "Hello?"
The world stops for Regulus, then; this voice, this moment, this voice. It is a personal ending, though the end of something is the beginning of something else; this we have established.
He says, calmly, or perhaps he's just numb, "Hello, Sirius."
A moment passes, then two.
"Hi, Regulus."
"You gave Remus your number," he says, because, frankly, what is there to say? Perhaps this was a terrible idea, but everything worth doing begins as a terrible idea—and this is worth doing. Worth trying for. He hopes.
It's not a question, of course, just a statement. Sirius answers anyway; perhaps he has nothing to say either—Regulus isn't sure how to feel about that. About anything, really. He just hopes, hopes, hopes.
"I did," says Sirius.
Another stretched silence; there are so many unspoken things between them that the air is thick, as if charged with electricity, as if a storm is coming. Which is ridiculous. It is already here. Is has always been. He sees that now; because they are the storm. Seen and not heard. It tells a child that their thoughts are not important enough to share, that their needs are not worth asking for, and that they are second-class citizens.
"Why?"
"Why what?" Sirius fires back.
Oh, and there are so many answers to this question, aren't they? Why did you give Remus your number and not to me directly, why didn't you call, why didn't you answer; I called and I called until I didn't, until I couldn't; why can't we be brothers, why did you leave without saying goodbye, why did you never look back—
"Why are you back in my life?" Regulus asks.
"Why are you?"
Silence.
"I don't know," says Regulus, and it's the truth, finally the truth.
"I don't know, either. Perhaps it's karma."
"Well," Regulus begins, clutching the phone tightly like he's a drowning man and the phone a life-jacket, "karma can go fuck itself."
A small chuckle. "When did you become so vulgar?"
"When did you stop noticing?"
Now, a sigh. "Can we not do this, Regulus? Please?"
He quirks an eyebrow; his grip on his phone tightens. "Do what, Sirius?"
"This," Sirius says from the other line, "this, Regulus, fighting."
"It's all we can do," Regulus says, and his heart clenches, instant regret swarming him. There had been times they could never fight, even if they tried. Now it seems that a thousand years have passed. Now there's a gap between them and it's uncrossable. He wants to try and cross it anyway, but he's falling in the abyss between and there is no escape. No one will catch him; no one is waiting down there.
Sirius hangs up.
Seconds come and go; minutes pass. The phone rings; Regulus picks it up.
"Hi," says Sirius.
"Hi," he says, too. They've done this before. They've been here before.
"Do you like James?" Sirius asks.
Regulus ends the call.
Ring .
He picks it up. I will be seen, he thinks . But I will be heard, too. We are the storm.
"Do you?" Sirius repeats, voice insistent. Do you like James?
"Yes," he says with a finality. There is no going back from this; he finds that he doesn't care. "I do like James."
He ends the call, or perhaps it's Sirius who hangs up; it doesn't matter.
The phone rings again, and again, and again. He picks it up every time; they talk, and someone will hang up, and then Sirius will call him again, and again. Sirius calls him every time. Perhaps he remembers too, you didn't call . Just one more unspoken thing between them. We will be seen and heard.
"Regulus."
"Sirius."
"Do you want to meet?"
Regulus laughs a hysterical laugh, throws his head back and laughs, laughs, and laughs, and this how they end up arranging a meeting. It takes them approximately two hours.
*
It's almost dark now; the sky has taken this strange shade of grey with brushes of pink and orange, the almost faded light reflecting on the school's windows for a last time before the day ends. Flickering stars have begun to make their appearance in the vast, unending canvas of the sunset sky; they are like scattered, alien lights; blinking, beautiful, and far out of reach. The trees are dark shadows against the sea of grey, orange and pink.
The orange leaves crash under Sirius' feet; he wraps his arms around himself, shivering; the chilling wind is ruthless against his cheeks, and his nose has turned red from the cold temperature. He looks around, scanning the school yard; behind him, as he walks forward, Hogwarts gets smaller, and the serene lake with the undisturbed waters keeps getting nearer. As his gaze wanders around searchingly, he comes to a halt. There is a boy lying on the grass, his hands behind his head like a pillow, his eyes wide open, staring at the sky, staring at the stars.
Sirius approaches with light steps, then lies down next to him, looking at the sky, too. Not looking at Regulus. Never looking at Regulus. Perhaps this was a mistake, but he can't bring himself to regret it. Idly, he wonders if you can feel sorry about something but not regret it, then thinks, yes. Yes, you can. The silence is broken only by their breaths; it is as though all sound has been diminished—or maybe it's Sirius who can't focus on anything else other than his own and his brother's existence. Because that's what they're doing, right now. They are quietly existing beside each other. And even this seems to him fragile, easily breakable, porcelain-like.
"You've gotten worse at muffling your steps, brother," says Regulus, eyes still locked on the sky, the stars reflected on his silver-grey eyes. Not accusing. Just an observation.
He shrugs as much as someone who's lying down is able to. "What can I say," he says, not looking at him either because it's easier this way, "I have long lost any reason to muffle my steps. And besides I didn't want to startle you—I'm not a complete arsehole, you know."
Regulus hums. He doesn't say anything for a while, then— "I would know you were coming even if you did muffle your steps." Iwould know it by the way the ground vibrates, and the way you breathe; I would know it by the way something changes when you're around. "I would know it because you were my brother and it's just how the world worked."
Something ugly snarls inside him; his heart clenches, and there's a lump in his throat that won't quite go away. Sirius says, "Were?"
"Are," he says then, the boy who has broken Sirius' heart and has had his own heart broken many times. Too many times. He adds, uncertainly, "Are , if you still want to . . . to try, that is. Because it's not going to be easy."
A laugh escapes him; a choked and broken sound. "Nothing is ever easy with us, brother. Nothing about this would ever be easy." Still not looking. "Thought you knew that." Never looking.
Sharply: "I know it better than anyone, Sirius. It is you—"
A pause. An exhale of breath, visible like the breath of a dragon, because it's too cold. Too cold to be out at that hour, too cold inside his brother's heart, too cold, too cold, too cold. "We're still fighting, then. Why won't we stop, Sirius?" Regulus rolls on his side, a wrinkled cheek pressed against the grass. "Why won't it stop?"
"I don't know," Sirius says truthfully, turning to look at Regulus too. "If I knew, I would tell you. You would be the first to know, and we would fix this."
"I want to fix this anyway. Because I miss you, and though I shouldn't tell you, I'm telling you anyway."
Sirius quirks an eyebrow, as if this is funny, as if there's anything funny about their situation, as if those words don't hurt him like a punch to the gut, like someone has stabbed him and, though the wound has healed, the scars won't fade— why won't they fade? he registers some distant, detached part of himself wondering.
"Why shouldn't you tell me?" he asks.
A ragged sound that must be a laugh, because otherwise it would be a sob, and Regulus doesn't cry. So much has changed. "Because I can't express my emotions without overthinking about all the stupid ways this could go terribly wrong, and because there are many, too many stupid ways this could go terribly wrong," Regulus says. "Because I am bad at this, and so are you, and because, according to Dorcas, I am socially anxious but I will keep insisting that I just hate people."
"You are socially dead."
"Your point being?"
He takes a deep breath, and another. "I miss the old Regulus—the one that was antisocial but didn't hate people. The gone Regulus."
"I'm still pretty much antisocial and even back then I hated people too. I just didn't always show it," his brother deadpans.
"Didn't ask. But I like the new Regulus too—how he smiles, how he laughs."
Regulus snorts, grins, a feral thing. "So you like my deranged laugh and my crooked smiles."
"I would love you with all your thorns. Insanity comes with the Black charm. "
"Well, fuck the Black charm."
"Exactly my point," Sirius says. And Regulus . . .
Regulus smiles, and there is something warm spreading in Sirius' chest. Maybe , he lets (allows) himself think, lets (allows) himself for the first time in years to ponder the small possibility, maybe . . .
There is something warm spreading in Sirius' chest and he thinks it's called hope.
*
Marlene walks with a determination that she feels. Her shoes echo on the corridor; then she comes to a halt, in front of the common room. With a strange detachment, she pushes the door open, ignores everyone else, and heads to the stairs that lead to the dormitories. Aka, the room she shares with Dorcas.
Well. Shit.
It is as if she has left her body behind, she thinks, as she climbs the stairs, hand holding the railing. There is a strange, glassy quality in the air, like watching from a small screen the actions of a stranger, not her own. Logically, she knows it's her who knocks the door; it's her who opens it carefully, when she hears a muffled "Enter." Illogically, Marlene is flying above the stars, above it all; she is flying above the pain of emotions, the pain that sadness brings, that anger and disappointment bring. She is flying above the stars and nothing makes much sense to her.
Then comes the landing. It's abrupt and violent, as if she has just woken up to a whole new world of brightness and sharp clarity. There is Dorcas, who's sitting on the bed; and there is Regulus Black, Sirius' baby brother, who's lying beside her; and there is Remus Lupin, the tall one, who's reading out loud from a heavy book—voice raspy from smoking, probably. And there is Marlene, with her skinny self, and her stupid blond hair, and the stupid green-blue eyes, who has no reason to be here with them, other than the whole I'm-your-roommate thing, Marlene, who . . .
Marlene who what?
She vaguely registers herself backing away from the room, thinks Dorcas has stood up— she's saying something, Marlene thinks , I should pay attention; everything she says is worth paying attention . But then her back collides with the stupid door that she didn't realise had closed behind her when she entered, and Marlene winces and curses under her breath, because, guess what! the world is blurry again; because her eyes sting from the sudden and painful contact her stupid back made with the wall, and come on! who cries over hitting their back with the wall? It sounds stupid even to her.
But then Dorcas is approaching her and she's gorgeous as always, even though she seems concerned and those wrinkles between her perfect brows don't suit her— are those there because of me? Marlene wonders and can't decide whether she should be glad for Dorcas being concerned about her well-being, or she should be annoyed with herself for making Dorcas worry in the first place. Because she doesn't want Dorcas to worry. Or does she? This is so confusing.
She blinks, then her surroundings become much less blurry, much cleaner. Taking a breath she didn't realise she was holding, Marlene looks at Dorcas, then looks around. Her eyebrows furrow.
"Where are your friends?" she asks. She is quite sure Black and Lupin were right here, in this room.
Dorcas shrugs. "I sent them away," she explains, fixing her with a searching look. "I would ask if you are okay—" Marlene opens her mouth to protest loudly and reassure her that: yes, she is, in fact, just fine "—but it would be a stupid question," Dorcas concludes, and so Marlene closes her mouth because Dorcas would see right through her silly little lie and perhaps Dorcas doesn't appreciate or like being lied to and Marlene appreciates and likes Dorcas very much indeed.
"Okay?" says Dorcas.
"Okay," says Marlene, feeling like a broken record. "Listen, Dorcas . . . " she trails off, unsure of what to say, unsure if she should say anything at all, unsure if there is anything to say at all. The truth is, there are a lot of things to say, but who bothers with the truth? Then again, if Dorcas doesn't like or appreciate being lied to, then maybe she won't appreciate or like Marlene, and that would be really terrible, because Marlene really likes Dorcas, though she shouldn't, because Marlene should have nothing to complain about; she has never had it difficult in her whole life, has never been traumatised, has never experienced anything negative, and, therefore, Dorcas deserves someone who can understand her better, which is not Marlene McKinnon with her skinny, ugly body, and her stupid, ugly soul.
So, in the end, she is a coward, and says nothing. Her sentence hangs between them in the way a wall of ice would; they can see through it, but the person from the other side is blurry, and their words muffled.
Dorcas sighs, then sits on the floor, and pats the space beside her impatiently. Marlene blinks again.
"You want me to sit there?" she asks, uncertain.
A short nod.
Marlene sits on the floor beside Dorcas, and Dorcas doesn't—won't turn to look at her; she looks like she's preparing for something. Something is about to change, she thinks, something has been about to change for a long time. The end of something, the beginning of something else. Time itself is slowing down, or perhaps it's going too quickly; she can't tell. Marlene studies Dorcas the way she would study someone reverent, someone saint-like that is to be worshipped and loved and respected. There is tension and there is electricity; Marlene sees it now. The first is something you can cut with a knife; tension is thick and mostly unpleasant. The second is electrifying—pretty self-explanatory; it makes her hairs on the back of her neck stand, makes her wonder, wonder.
"Is there any particular reason we're sitting on the floor, Dorcas? Not that I don't absolutely love it, but what exactly—"
A blur of movement, wild black and curly hair blowing around her face, then Dorcas kisses her, and it only lasts for a second before she withdraws, eyes wide open, as if she didn't know what she was about to do either, because Marlene as hell wasn't.
"I . . . " Dorcas' lips have parted, surprise still evident on her expression. "I didn't know I was going to do that."
Marlene laughs then. "I didn't know you were going to do that either," she says. "I—you . . . you kissed me!" She doesn't mean to sound so breathless and delighted as she does, and then Dorcas is laughing, too; now they are both cackling like idiots and something has definitely changed.
*
Sirius sits beside Remus in class, the next day.
He slides on the empty seat next to him casually, as if they have agreed to this, arranged it, even. Remus, a book open in front of him, doesn't see him; he senses him, instead, senses him and the way he lightens up the room when he enters, the way he walks and his footsteps, the way he breathes and exists, the way he is. There are soft and hushed murmurs rising from their classmates, but Sirius seems to pay them no mind, as if they somehow do not concern him. Remus feels the beginning of a smile on his lips, feels the ghost of Sirius' lips on his, and straightens his posture.
And then McGonagall enters the classroom and silence falls immediately over the others, the murmurs cut short, as she starts the lesson, tone sharp and precise as always.
It happens on the next day, and the next; Sirius will sit with him, and though he won't attempt to engage him in any conversation, Remus feels something fragile and beautiful and very dangerous blossom inside him. This is what we call 'hope.' It starts with glances, with averting their eyes quickly, too quickly; it starts with blushing, and a shoulder bumping into the other; it starts with two boys, and a whole world apart, and a whole world closer than ever before.
(It starts as many things do—a phone ringing, someone answering from the other side, a smooth voice, two complete strangers, but that is about to change. It starts with a phone-call, and it starts on a summer that never ends.)
Something is about to change, but wrong, something is already changing, and they have all the time of the world they could wish for. It is not official yet, but it's pretty much common knowledge; every time someone flirts with a very annoyed Remus, this someone will end up in the infirmary will a bloody nose; every time someone throws themselves at Sirius, the someone ends up being punched. And it is simple, until it's not, because they can't keep dancing around each other, because it's definitely fun, but it's also exhausting, and this is how they end up making out in a closet, and when Sirius does come out of the closet—both literally and metaphorically—there are love-bites on his neck, and his hair is shaggy and dishevelled, but he looks very pleased with himself, and James bloody Potter won't stop laughing for months. Dorcas approves, her new girlfriend on her side. Regulus is affronted by the prospect of his brother and his best friend being together; he doesn't talk to either of them for three whole days, and when he does, he threatens Sirius with death if he hurts Remus, and pats Remus on the back, then buys him another book.
(Sirius crosses his arms and complains about traitorous brothers. Regulus pouts and—as the obviously more mature sibling of the two—sticks out his tongue.)
*
"If your family has an old tradition of naming their kids after stars, and you want to be alone, don't go to the top tower."
Again, Regulus tenses, then turns his head slightly to look at the owner of the voice; it's James, because of course it is. A smirk makes its way on his features as he casually approaches Regulus, stopping beside him, close enough to touch, but hundreds of miles away. Because James isn't his and he can never be. But maybe that had never been the point.
He shrugs.
Dawn breaks over the distant mountains, bathing them in faded daylight that keeps increasing. The sun is slowly coming back, creeping into the sky shyly. It's like a picture of orange and grey and pink and red brushes of paintbrush, and though any other day the red would look to him like blood, crimson and metallic, today, it does not. He thinks it may have to do something with James standing beside him, or his hazel eyes like glittering honey in the sunlight; the way he leans over the edge, or the way he looks at Regulus with gold in his gaze.
How had he been so stupid to compare James with the sun? The sunlight is nothing against someone like James, because James is the whole universe, and he burns more than any sun could ever hope to in any galaxy, in any dimension, in all the what ifs, almosts and maybes of this cursed with Regulus world. But if James is here, maybe, just maybe, Regulus can stop being cursed. And even if he cannot get rid of all his thorns, eternal damnation is worth it to be with James—here, in this world, in any other world, in every parallel universe—because James Potter is the universe; he is the totality of existence; he is everything that exists, everything that has existed, and everything that will ever exist. He is the Big Bang, the reason everything is in the first place; he is saint and sin, a forbidden temptation; he is the gravity that drew matter together and formed the first stars and the first galaxies.
He may not believe in any god, but Regulus thinks he can believe in James. The end of something, the beginning of something else, he thinks again.
"Can you not sit there?" says James, brows pinched together in concern.
It takes him a whole moment to work out what James means. Regulus shrugs and looks down at his kicking the air feet; he is sitting on the edge of the balcony, and there is nothing that would catch him if he fell. But he's not intending to let go any time soon.
"I am not going to fall, James," he says, quietly, though he is grinning.
"I know that; wouldn't let you go down."
Regulus draws a sharp intake of breath; he looks up, meets James' eyes. He has something to say, but not just yet. Not just yet. Instead, he pats the space beside him; James eyes it suspiciously.
"You want me to sit there?" James says with disbelief written on his doubtful expression. "I—what if I fall?"
He says, "You think you wouldn't let me go down but I would? James, you are foolish, and I would be the most foolish for letting you fall."
"People will think we are strange," James observes.
Regulus grins. "We are strange."
With obvious reluctance, James comes to sit beside Regulus, swinging his legs over the edge, then drawing them close to his chest. "You aren't scared, are you?" he asks Regulus.
He shakes his head. "No. Are you? Scared?"
"Of what?" James grins, and the wind ruffles his hair. "Falling?"
It happens in a few seconds; James is leaning towards him, watching, studying, his palm supporting his weight. "I think," he admits, "I might already have."
Heart racing, ears ringing with bells, Regulus feels thousands of small somethings inside him explode; right now he is a star, and he's increasing in brightness because of the catastrophic explosion that is James Potter, the explosion that ejects most of his mass. He is a supernova and he is richer for it; he is exploding in a brilliant burst of light; he can just for a brief time outshine entire galaxies and radiate more energy than the sun will in its entire lifetime. Gravity is taking over and he is exploding in mere seconds. Nothing will be left behind but a neutron star or a black hole.
"Oh shit," he says, high on this new feeling, "you'll ruin me and I will be glad."
"Only if you allow it," James says. "I meant what I said," he continues. "You are the night sky; you are all the stars of the universe; you are all its blackness, too, and I will love you more for it."
A wild grin. "Go on."
He is a supernova and he isn't going to die any time soon.
*
Pass me that lovely little gun
My dear, my darling one
The cleaners are coming, one by one
You don't even want to let them start
They're knocking now upon your door
They measure the room, they know the score
They're mopping up the butcher's floor
Of your broken little hearts
Children
Forgive us now for what we've done
It started out as a bit of fun
Here, take these before we run away
The keys to the gulag
O children
Lift up your voice, lift up your voice
Children
Rejoice, rejoice
Come on
Come on
Come on
Come on
Here comes Frank and poor old Jim
They're gathering 'round with all my friends
We're older now, the light is dim
And you are only just beginning
Children
We have the answer to all your fears
It's short, it's simple, it's crystal clear
It's round about and it's somewhere here
Lost amongst our winnings
O children
Lift up your voice, lift up your voice
Children
Rejoice, rejoice
The cleaners have done their job on you
They're hip to it, man, they're in the groove
They've hosed you down, you're good as new
And they're lining up to inspect you
Children
Poor old Jim's white as a ghost
He's found the answer that we lost
We're all weeping now, weeping because
There ain't nothing we can do to protect you
O children
Lift up your voice, lift up your voice
Children
Rejoice, rejoice
Hey little train, we are all jumping on
The train that goes to the Kingdom
We're happy, Ma, we're having fun
And the train ain't even left the station
Hey little train, wait for me
I once was blind but now I see
Have you left a seat for me?
Is that such a stretch of the imagination?
Hey little train, wait for me
Was held in chains but now I'm free
I'm hanging in there, don't you see
In this process of elimination
Hey little train, we are all jumping on
The train that goes to the Kingdom
We're happy, Ma, we're having fun (ooh, children)
It's beyond my wildest expectation (ooh, children)
Hey little train, we are all jumping on
The train that goes to the Kingdom
We're happy, Ma, we're having fun (ooh, children)
And the train ain't even left the station (ooh, children)
Hey little train, wait for me
I once was blind but now I see, ooh
O children, by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds