A Paper Bag
In my younger and more vulnerable years, I believed in true love. Mother had attempted in her care to free me from that delusion, many times over, but her attempts were, unfortunately enough for the both of us, largely unfruitful. I grew older, desperate for love, and I would do anything in my power to throw myself at it, should any occasion to such action present itself. And as such, as I left behind the desolate North, I hoped against all logic that in London, the city I had so idealised for myself, I should find what I yearned for.
With myself I took an old friend, Peter Pettigrew, as we found each other’s company admirably neutral in feeling. He sat quietly in one corner of the train compartment with his novel, and I sat equally dumb in the other, sticking my cigarette out the window every so often (Peter’s one rule when we were together was that I open the window when I smoke, and while I never considered myself an addict beforehand, I kept finding more and more occasions to leave it ajar), and we would not speak to each other for the most part, the silence that sat between us far too loud to talk over. Soon enough, though, I would learn to be grateful for each such silence, for once I met the men who entered the compartment next, my life would become far from silent for many, many moons.
As I mentioned, two men walked into the compartment – which was to be understood, for the train was mostly occupied, and I and Peter found ourselves mostly uninterrupted until then – and sat down opposite each other. One man had tan skin, and I couldn’t imagine what part of the United Kingdom he could possibly hail from and be free from any kind of unpleasantness, but he had the air of someone who never knew any kind of cruelty all the same. The glasses on his nose held behind them sparkling eyes, and his nose was crooked like a football player’s. The other man was pale, beyond measure, and he seemed as though he had witnessed every cruelty – the two seemed to complete each other in that sense – one containing all the melanin between the two of them, and the other all the trauma, like little siamese twins.
“Oi, Potter – pass me a cigarette, would you dear?” The pale one spoke, and the tan one shook his head.
“Oh Padsie, you know I don’t smoke.” He smiled softly and took out a newspaper from his briefcase. The pale man (“Padsie”, as the other had called him), sighed deeply, pouting ever so slightly, and turned his gaze back to the door. Peter shot me a look, and I nodded, reaching into my pocket and handing the man my box. His eyes lit up, and for a moment, I could’ve sworn there was gold amidst their obsidian. He grinned at me, with a smile that reached all the way to his wisdom teeth, and reached out to take the box.
“Cheers,” he said, taking a cigarette from the box and lighting it. He took a deep drag from it, sighing contently at the comfort it brought him.
“No worries,” I answered, taking the box back and taking a drag of my own for confidence. “I have plenty.”
The man grinned at me once more. “It’s nice to meet other people, innit? My name’s Sirius, Sirius Black. And this wanker,” he nodded at his friend, “is James Potter.” His accent seemed exaggerated, like an american parading as a yorkie, but I let it slide. I took his hand and shook it.
“Remus Lupin. And this is Peter Pettigrew.” Peter looked up from his book and nodded, eyes crossing with Mr. Potter for a split second as the man looked up from his own paper, and the two returned to their reading.
A moment of silence appeared, but as would soon become obvious to me, Mr. Black didn’t seem to enjoy that.
“So, Mr. Lupin, what brings you to London?”
~~~~~~
I sighed deeply, placing my suitcase on my bed. Peter was in the room next door, and for some reason our other two flatmates (which our landlord only cared to inform us existed the moment we entered the apartment) were nowhere to be found. As such, I decided it would be good for me to settle in. And yet… I couldn’t bring myself to care enough. Instead, I found myself lying face-first in the mattress, with all the drama of a true scotsman. Somewhere in the kitchen, I could hear Peter moving around – setting out his books, putting the kettle on. I had come to know his rhythm by now, and could recite the way my old friend went about his days from the top of my head. He wasn’t Scottish, but he was good enough to hold onto – a primary school friend like the stickiest of sticky-weed.
Still, I enjoyed his company. One day, years back, I told him of my ailment. He nodded solemnly, and after a moment’s pause, young Mr. Pettigrew turned to me, curiosity in his eyes, and asked: “So do you like… get fleas… instead of headlice?” Since then, we were the fastest of friends, and I took him with me everywhere. I firmly believe that if I told Peter that I was planning on moving to Timbuktu, he would sigh deeply, complain about how far it is, and start packing to join me.
I fear I must’ve fallen asleep, for the next thing I remember hearing is two faintly familiar voices. I sprung up from the mattress confused, and went into the living room. Sure as day, there they were – Mr. Potter and Mr. Black, from the train. The latter waved at me happily. I blinked. It seemed I was far from free from his obsidian eyes, I thought to myself. A foolish thought, one that had red creeping onto my ears, but I ignored the blood rush.
“It seems we shall be getting properly acquainted with each other, Mr. Lupin.” Mr. Black grinned at me, and I couldn’t help but smile back. I chose to ignore the meaningful look Peter shot Mr. Potter, and the way the latter’s eyes lit up with giddy realisation.
“So it does, Mr. Black.” I nodded. “So it does.”
Mr. Potter cleared his throat, bringing our attention back to him. “I think,” he started, “since we’re all going to be living together for now – we can drop the pleasantries?”
“Oh, yeah – of course,” Mr. Black’s voice dropped from his natural, posher inflection, back into the ruggedness he had taught himself. I found it a peculiar phenomenon. “Call me Sirius.” He smiled.
I smiled back. “Call me Remus, in that case.”
I vaguely heard Peter propose a board game, but it was just background noise to me – as I mulled over the lyricism of “call me Sirius”, like an exceptional red wine.
~~~~~~
Soon, we were all drunk and laughing, shoes off and game on the floor. James’ glasses were abandoned on the kitchen counter, Peter’s sweater was somewhere behind the couch, and I cradled a bottle of firewhiskey as Sirius creeped closer minute by minute, the smell of the glitter on his collarbones intoxicating despite its absence.
“So, let me get this straight,” Peter started, turning to Sirius. “You two met, what – two weeks ago?”
“Eleven days to be exact,” Sirius chuckled, letting down his hair (Merlin, that hair…). “But really, who’s counting?”
“And you just, what, decided to get an apartment together? Like that?”
James laughed. “Yeah, just like that.” He turned to look at Sirius, and there was a strange sort of love in those eyes that made me almost jealous of him. Why was I jealous? What was this whiskey doing to me? “But really, with all the experiences we shared, it felt like we knew each other much longer than that.”
“Oh, yes,” Sirius coughed, seemingly choking on his drink, and I considered putting away the bottle for a moment. “Well. Shared trauma really does bring people together – doesn’t it?” He took another swig, perhaps for confidence, and continued, “James was there for me in a very important moment of my life – he’s like a second brother to me.”
“You have a brother?” Peter hiccuped, “how amazing! I only have sisters…”
The conversation droned on in the back, but I couldn’t find it within me to focus on what was being said, mind swimming in thoughts of Sirius Black, and James Potter, who was like a brother to him, a brother, and nothing else… But I felt it foolish to hold onto such lavender dreams, and soon made my leave to tend to my growing discomfort. I felt Sirius’ eyes on my back as I left, but he said nothing, and I was grateful for it.
…
A few hours passed, and the games subsided, lights went out, and I felt I could breathe again. I made my way to the kitchen, cigarette unlight hanging in my mouth. I found my coffee mix in one of the overhead cupboards (Peter didn’t drink coffee, but I did, so we had a rule that I would keep it in the upper cupboard, as it was easier for me to reach than for him), and set the kettle on.
The door to one of the rooms opened, and I heard gentle, sock-clad feet step towards me, and a slim, pale figure pull itself onto the counter.
“Pour me one while you’re at it, would you?” Sirius asked, and I nodded, mute from my ailment and the unlight cigarette in my mouth. The water boiled, and I poured Sirius and myself a coffee each, handing him the larger of the two mugs. I leaned against the sink in what I hoped was a nonchalant matter, and he tilted his head, looking at the cigarette in my lips, and I swear – when he looked at me, I felt like god could be real. He got off the counter and strode towards me, so that we stood so close to each other we shared the same breaths. He took out his wand, and with a single word my cigarette was lit, and he was back on his seat, and I was red from the embarrassment.
We sat in silence for a while, drinking our coffees and me smoking my cigarette every so often, before he spoke once more. “Why do you look at me like that?”
I choked on my coffee, before asking: “How do you mean?”
“Like I’m… I don’t know. Strange.” He shrugged. I blinked, turning my gaze away.
“I don’t think you’re strange,” I said finally, looking him back in the eyes. “I think you’re beautiful.”
And for the rest of the few moments we shared there alone, under the moonlight cast by our apartment’s balcony door, there was silence, and when I returned to my bed that night alone, I cried like the baby I truly am, swearing in my soul never to return to that moment, ever again. I did return to it, of course, many times, in the solitude of my mind – like a moth unto the flame, and Icarus to the sun, I could not, for the life of me, deny the magnetism of Sirius Black.