#continuity two

Rain lashed the roof and walls last night

Sounding like bullets

And making you jump

And you

Bisclavret

Touched my shoulder

And said my name

And i pretended to be asleep

Because you

Bisclavret

Are not something i’m ready to face.

Thunder shook the house again

And a rush of cold hit my back

As you folded back the blankets

And i felt like i was falling

As your weight shifted the mattress.

And there you were

Bisclavret

Your back pressing into mine

Making my heart pound

Like the raindrops outside

We lie there

For hours

Both of us awake

And both afraid

You of the thunder

And me of myself.

Remus stared at the handwriting on the yellowing paper inside the leatherbound book he was holding. James’s, no doubt.

His heart ached, it had been 12 years since he’d seen that handwriting.

He leaned against the mantel in his office.

The things you find when you go through your trunk.

Remus got the distinct feeling that he was not supposed to be reading this, but he couldn’t stop himself.

The name ‘Bisclavret’ seemed strangely familiar, but he couldn’t exactly place it.as far as he knew, neither he nor James knew of anyone named Bisclavret, so it had to be some sort of metaphor, right? James liked metaphors.

Sinking down into a chair by the fire, he let himself turn the page.

He read for hours.

…

By the time he came to the last poem in the book, his back ached. But he couldn’t stop now, could he?

Besides, this was another Bisclavret one (there were many within the pages) and while he still had no idea who the hell James was talking about, he seemed to be pining hard.

Lines like

“The light hit your hair

And turned it gold

In a way that would humble even the stars.

Bisclavret

You put the sun to shame”

Peppered the pages, even turning up in poems that seemed to be about other things, like James had suddenly got distracted and decided to write about this mystery bloke.

Which was a surprise in and of itself- he’d always figured James was something along the lines of aromantic, he never really showed any interest in anyone as far as Remus could tell- and Remus had spent a lot of time with him, you’d think he’d’ve known if James ever felt like that…

The last poem- not on the last page, it had obviously- the book, that was- had obviously been cut short. The handwriting was a mess, like it’d been written sideways while he was lying in bed.

October 30, 1981

It rained tonight,

Bisclavret

But you didn’t open my door

Like you used to.

There was no hand on my shoulder

Or rush of cold

When the thunder shook the house

And the lightning lit up the walls.

The pressure on my back

Is not you

Bisclavret

And i’m aching

And not just from the chill

I wish

That you were here

That you would climb the stairs

And open my door

And take my hand

And pull me from bed

That you’d look me in the eye

While the lighting turned you golden

And you’d echo my heart

And we’d leave.

And i’d kiss her goodbye

(not like i’d kiss you)

(i’d never stop kissing you)

I’m not afraid anymore

But too little, too late

Because Bisclavret

Bisclavret

I’ve a bad feeling about tomorrow.

The next morning was Monday, so Remus was teaching class. He was pretty certain that this ‘Bisclavret’ was some reference to something (who would name their kid Bisclavret? No one, that’s who.) and it was really eating at Remus- he had to know! He had to know who the hell this guy was! Some mystery-ass person that enamoured James for 8 years straight- that he was thinking of literally the day before his death, and Remus had never even met him! He felt betrayed, honestly, and sure, it was really none of his business, but last night left him aching with grief and curiosity alike. He had to know.

On the board, before class, he wrote:

Extra credit: Who is Bisclavret? Bonus points for detail.

The question went unanswered for most of the day until, perhaps unsurprisingly, the gryffindor third years filed in.

Midway through class (they were covering hinkypunks), Hermione Granger’s hand went up.

“Yes, Hermione?” He paused, the hinkypunk (a foggy-looking creature) he was holding by the leg wriggling in his grasp.

“I’d like to answer the extra credit question.”

“Okay?”

She looked a bit nervous, like she wasn’t sure if Remus actually wanted it answered, but he nodded for her to continue.

“Bisclavret, or Bisclaveret, is a character from a short story from the 1100’s by Marie de France.”

He nodded for her to continue- that definitely seemed like the kind of reference James would sprinkle into his poetry-

“Basically,” She said, “He was a knight married to this girl, and every week he’d disappear for a few days- she asks him where he’s going- a lot of her stories are about love, so the girl says that if he doesn’t tell her she’ll die of a broken heart, and he believes her, so he tells her where he’s going- Bisclavret is a werewolf-”

WHAT?

“But he’s not violent or anything, because he’s a knight, he’s actually quite gentle-”

HUH????

“But she betrays him and- in the story, werewolves can’t turn back without their clothes- so she steals his clothes and then marries this other knight- Bisclavret lives in the woods for like a year until he’d found and rescued by the king, who brings him to live with him-”

Remus was sharply reminded of being rescued by James in second year.

“Still as a wolf, he doesn’t know it’s Bisclavret- eventually they get the clothes back but he doesn’t put them on, and the king figured it’s because he’s embarrassed, so he takes him into his bedroom and leaves him alone for a few hours, and when he comes back, Bisclavret is human again, and it turns out that the king missed him so much that they kiss.”

Remus was reeling. Werewolf? Gentle Werewolf? Bisclavret? Remus? James never seemed to like anyone? Werewolf? Bisclavret? Remus?

Apparently, he was silent for quite a while, because the next thing he noticed was that the hinkypunk had gone still in his grasp and Hermione was clearing her throat.

“Was that good enough?” She asked.

Remus stared at her blankly. What was she talking about…?

Oh. The extra credit.

“Y- yes, that was very- yes. Thank you, I’ll add that onto your grade-”

With Remus left reeling and unable to concentrate, he was forced to do something he’d never done before: end the class early.

Remus found his way back to his office with 45 minutes left in the period and sank into his chair by the fire, staring in astonishment at the final poem scrawled into the leather bound book.

Bisclavret.

The werewolf.

James was writing love poems using the name of a werewolf.

James had never seemed to pay attention to anyone romantically.

Bisclavret was a werewolf.

James had spent his last night on earth longing to run away with Bisclavret.

The werewolf.

Remus.

The werewolf.

His stomach turned and his vision blurred with tears as he stared up at the ceiling.

He felt like he needed to be taken to the seaside for his health.

This was something he could have died without knowing. He would have been happier not knowing. The idea that- and it was too late for Remus to-

Too little, too late was right, James, but it wasn’t your fault. It was never-

Remus squeezed his eyes closed and tears began to fall down his face.

Miles away, a shaky, starving hand strained against the weight of the iron shackle chaining it to the ground.

A finger, thin and practically skeletal, began to trace letters onto the loose dirt of the unfinished basement’s floor.

It began,

B

I