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You’re eleven.
And you know, you just know that it’s useless. You’ll be found out (and thrown out) before you even have the chance to make friends.
But these three loud-golden-lost boys are sitting in your compartment. You expected them to pretend you were invisible, but they didn’t. You’re all right, says the pale one, the roguish boy who breathes aristocracy.
And you give him a little half-smile, and mutter, All right.
You’re fourteen.
He tells you that they’re still working on it. We’ll have it figured out soon, Moony.
You stir from your cot, bandages shifting and chafing your skin, and you touch his hand. The transformation, this time, was difficult. You want company. And you’ll have it - maybe, soon.
Through one eye, you can see that he looks as pained as you feel. It’s almost comforting. Almost.
You’re sixteen.
You want to punch him, strangle him, kill him for being so stupid, Sirius, how could you be so fucking stupid? and you’ve never seen him look this guilty. You doubt you ever will again. But he deserves it.
He makes this face, like he wants to cry or leave or hit you, but he doesn’t. He kisses you, like that will make it okay, like he’ll be absolved and Snape will be all right and your lips won’t be torn and stinging.
And you push him away. Of course you do.
You’re nineteen.
The flat is bare and empty - so is your wallet, you’re reminded, always. He’s running elegant fingers down your chest, mouthing at the sharp angles of you, touching you until you whimper (helpless, hopeless, fuck yes, right there) in his arms.
You think you might love him, but then, you think you might not. Everyone else has someone, so you cling to him night after night, but neither of you has said it. You don’t know what will happen if you do.
And you need this, whatever it is. If you die tomorrow, at least you’ll know it was a possibility.
You’re twenty-one.
And you hate him. You hate him for all he’s worth (and that’s not much, you realise). You can’t bear to go home, so you find a tube station and vomit on the cracked tile. They’re gone.
You’re alone.
You’re twenty-five.
You live nowhere, and everywhere. You go home with strange men and women from strange pubs, just for a place to sleep and shower.
Your only true company is the wolf. He rips you apart, leaves you bruised on a park bench, but at least you’re feeling something.
Such a shame, they say, sighing and tutting as they pass. A woman drops four quid by your feet, but you don’t want it. You were loud and golden, once. Now you’re only lost.
You’re thirty-six.
He bleeds back into your life like spilled ink, all jutting bones and ghost-smiles and old, old eyes. He’s not the murderer, the traitor, the spy, or even the ex-lover. When you talk, laugh, fuck, it’s the same as it was, but different. He’s old, but he isn’t. He’s as young as you, but that’s not young at all. He’s just him, you think, and he’s there.
Until he’s not.
Just when you think you could love him again (just when you remember that you always have) he’s drifting behind a veil, and the ancient eyes are laughing and crying and pleading with you, Join me, Remus, please. And you nearly do.
You’re thirty-eight.
You’re eternal.
When you arrive, he’s the first to greet you.
It’s bright and warm and it feels like love. Probably, you think, because it is.