Washes the Grave with Silvery Tears

Author's Note: Despite being a Harry Potter fanatic for the past decade or thereabouts and having been an avid reader of fanfiction for several years, I have never attempted a story of my own for this fandom because I feared that I would be unequal to portraying our beloved characters in such a manner as would befit their greatness in a true-to-canon perspective.

Finally, I endeavored to write a story for one of my favorite literary friendships of all time, James Potter and Sirius Black. In writing this, I realized that there are more monumental moments in James/Sirius history which deserve attention than I could reasonably piece together in a one-shot. Therefore, because I have selected only a handful of these events for this story, I may decide to elaborate on the others in a different work in the future.

Please R&R. Constructive criticism is always welcomed and appreciated, and I truly value the readers' honest thoughts and opinions. ^_^

Disclaimer: I claim no rights to Harry Potter.

The title is borrowed from Scarborough Fair. Though no one visits a grave with silvery tears in this story, the connotations of silver, I think, hold special meaning for the Marauders. In one way or another, silver – whether in color or as a metal – has imprinted itself on Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.

It is the twenty-seventh day of the month. To the inmates of Azkaban Prison – to those who have succeeded, whether deliberately or unwillingly, in retaining the obsession of marking time's progress on their sordid walls – this Saturday is merely another day in an unyielding future of desolation and insanity.

But for one inhabitant, this twenty-seventh day is solely the first occasion of an alarmingly vast number which will haunt his slumber for twelve years. It is the first twenty-seventh of March which he celebrates as a murderer, but it is an occasion with as much power to inflict heartbreak and madness as the Dementors would wield if he succumbed to their persuasion.

. . . . .

Sirius awakens at midnight, instinctively reaching for a nonexistent wand in the all-consuming darkness, acutely aware that this day is different from all of the others which he has endured in prison.

Miraculously – or, more fittingly, as punishment for his crimes – he has remained sane for nearly five months at the treatment of glistening, scabbed hands. He consumes only enough food to survive, but he imbibes all liquids with a determination to obliterate himself in what he wishes was firewhiskey. Every morning, as he realizes that he has lived to confront his nightly demons once more, he is torn between pleading for an Avada Kedavra (though he deserves to die in agony, not painlessly) and bitterly congratulating himself on besting the Dementors.

Today, however, he rights himself against a wall and stares unseeingly at the bars of his cell until the date dawns on him. He recalls that the minister had arrived for an inspection on Friday last. That Friday was the nineteenth… and today is –

He lurches forward, planting his hands on the squalid floor beneath him, and violently heaves for several minutes, sweat beading on his forehead and sliding down his hollowed cheek to splash onto the remnants of his dinner.

. . . . .

On the eve of James's seventeenth birthday, Sirius, Remus, and Peter had engineered a rambunctious celebration in the Gryffindor common room, complete with an unending supply of food and drinks courtesy of the kitchen house-elves and desserts smuggled from Honeydukes. Having coordinated a private Hogsmeade outing for the evening of the twenty-seventh, they had applauded themselves on springing an unexpected surprise party upon their friend for the first time in seven years. The following night, Sirius, Remus, and Peter cheerfully accompanied James to The Three Broomsticks, whereat Lily awaited them with their presents for the guest of honor.

Three hours and five Butterbeers afterward, amidst a mess of shimmering wrapping paper and Rosmerta's half-hearted complaints, a mostly sober James shuffled a semi-inebriated Sirius into the backroom and grasped his best friend in an unusually emotional embrace.

Drawing apart, Sirius placed a hand on James's shoulder, concerned and bemused. "Prongs, mate, what's the matter? Lily's waiting for you outside. Didn't you say you wanted to take her for a moonlit walk to the Shack?"

James, uncharacteristically solemn, mirrored Sirius's movements. "Thank you for tonight, Padfoot. Lily and Moony and Wormtail, too. I didn't think I'd be ready to, y'know, have fun again." He paused, inhaling a shallow breath. "I miss them."

Smiling sorrowfully, Sirius wrapped an arm around James's shoulders, turning them toward the door. "I miss them, too. But they'd be happy to know that you're moving on. Besides, your mum would have my head if I let you mope in a corner, skipping meals and skiving off your lessons."

James laughed, lightly elbowing Sirius in the ribs. "Right. We've a reputation to uphold, after all."

"Can't have the professors thinking we're no longer model students." Sirius grinned, pleased with James's familiar lightheartedness. Mr. and Mrs. Potter would have approved. "C'mon, let's head back inside."

But James stopped, swallowing nervously, stepping out from beneath Sirius's arm. "Padfoot, wait. There's something I need to tell you and I need to know that you're okay with this."

Startled and genuinely worried, Sirius held his tongue, crossing his arms tightly across his chest.

"I'm going to ask Lily to marry me."

His arms dropped to his sides. "Prongs, what – "

"Let me finish, please. I'm going to ask her to marry me. Not tonight, but very soon. There's no point in waiting. I want to spend the rest of my life with her and I reckon she feels the same way." His eyes shone behind his glasses, his mouth curving into a soft smile. "Well?"

"I was going to ask – before someone so rudely interrupted – what you needed my permission for."

"You're my best friend, Sirius. You're practically my brother. I want you to know that Lily marrying me doesn't change anything between us."

Sirius beamed. "Of course it doesn't, you moron! And when you and Lily start having a bunch of Pronglets running around Potter Manor, I'll be the awesome godfather who spoils them and teaches them how to woo pretty redheads, won't I?"

"'Uncle Padfoot.'" James snorted. "I like the sound of that."

. . . . .

Frowning at the memory and ignoring the warmth spreading from his heart, Sirius glares at his palms, noting the calluses and filth. Detachedly, he listens to an insistent scratching issuing from beyond his line of vision in the dim light of the early morning.

Suddenly, a rat – fur thinning in patches, ears chipped, a vile countenance upon its wretched face – scampers across an abandoned newspaper and Sirius forfeits all semblances of control. He lunges for the vermin, seizing it in his fist, his weakened grip temporarily immune to the effects of emaciation.

Mustering his strength and hatred, he crushes the rat in unadulterated loathing, taunted by its squeaking, goaded by the reminder of Wormtail's lies, deceit, betrayal – I promise, Sirius. Trust me, Sirius. I would never let anything happen to James, Sirius.

"James is DEAD because of you, Peter!" In his anguish and rage, Sirius hurls the dead rodent through the bars of his cell. He listens to the satisfying crunch as it smashes against the wall opposite, then collapses onto his knees, hands clawing at his lank hair, muttering and shouting incoherently, choking on his sobs.

"James and Lily are dead, Peter! Harry has no parents. James is dead. He's dead. He's dead. I'm sorry, Remus, you were never the traitor. James was right, but he's dead. I should've killed the rat. I killed my best friend. He's DEAD. He's GONE!"

He's gone.

. . . . .

Before dawn, the storm clouds drift aside beyond his window, allowing a beam of moonlight to glance upon the far wall, illuminating the tattered hems of his robes and the rubbish heaped about his bed. In his left hand, he clutches a yellowed, much-abused copy of the Daily Prophet, dated November 1, 1981.

Today is March 27, 1982.

Padfoot curls in upon himself, imaging the stag's antlers nudging his flank. "Happy birthday, Prongs."

Thank you for reading! Remember, an author is hard-pressed to improve her writing if she doesn't know what it is that needs improving upon.