Author's Note: This story gets dark. I was serious in the synopsis - this will not have a happy ending. Trigger warnings for anorexia, EDNOS, bulimia, alcohol abuse, suicidal ideation, and canon-consistent violence. Be safe, ya'll.
Still Fighting to Walk Towards the Light
Prologue
Sirius Black found only bits and pieces of the night lurking in the shadows of his memory. He built understanding of events from fragments – unintentional edge pieces to his puzzle, his new life.
The Whomping Willow creaked when it froze, the same sound it made the first time he found its secret and for a moment he forgot he wasn't still thirteen.
Padfoot felt dust nest in his fur as he bared his teeth to keep a boy afraid. The dust stained him grey, old as the ages, and minutes went by before he remembered murder wasn't in his plan.
A little grey man huddled on the beaten floorboards, cowering in shabby robes. Padfoot yearned to lunge for the throat; Sirius snarled and settled for a wand.
The son of James requested a life. Or, rather, two. Wormtail's and his own. Don't kill Wormtail, rescue himself from the Dementors. A fair trade.
The whisper-rush of moving clouds and the sting of stark moonlight. Sirius leapt and Padfoot landed, facing off with the wolf.
Summer drained from the air, only dregs of insect sounds remaining, soon to be quashed by his own screams. The only thing louder was the breath of oppression – of Dementors.
Caged in a soft chair in a warm office, but the chill still resided in his chest. He lost his heart long ago.
He traced constellations on the sleek hippogriff feathers, mapping his way as the dark-silk wind dried his spilt blood.
Sirius toppled unceremoniously off the hippogriff the moment it landed, lying dizzily on the ground. He whispered an unaddressed 'thank you' for the ground being warm. He listened to himself breathe, listened to the rustle of ragged robes over dirt.
There was too much to think about, too much to understand now. His mind was weary, his body tired and sore. He only knew two things. First, he was free of Azkaban. Not a new development by any means, but it felt new after twelve years of the same four walls, the same set of bars. He relished every moment he could live in the present. And yet the second thing he knew: that he was captive to the duties of a fugitive. Namely, don't get caught. Stay on the move, stay out of sight.
He would need a place to stay. But for now he should probably move from this clearing. As much as he enjoyed seeing the sky, lying on the ground in a clearing was not conducive to remaining hidden. For that matter, Buckbeak would probably not choose to keep standing over him forever.
With more effort than Sirius would care to admit, he dragged himself to his feet and clumsily led Buckbeak to the edge of the woods, wondering for a moment where Buckbeak had taken him, then wondering if he was still losing blood from the fight with the wolf. He was still horribly dizzy.
Once Buckbeak's rope was securely tied to a tree, Sirius half-collapsed onto the ground again. It was cooler here under the trees, and he shivered. He curled up, huddling deeper into his thin robes. He wished he had a wand to make a fire, to heal the cuts, to mend his robes. His wand had been snapped when he was sent to Azkaban; the wand he confiscated from Wormtail had been taken by Fudge.
Well, if nothing else, I'm still free, he thought, and then let out a small, bitter laugh. Only if freedom meant running from humanity, being trapped out in the rain, starving all the time. The only thing Sirius Black was free of was freedom.
He awoke to darkness, black night shrouding his vision. It was so incredibly cold he wondered if he hadn't slept right through summer and fall, into the dead of winter. He consoled himself with the lack of snow.
Sirius tentatively stood up, steadying himself against a tree. Glancing around, he took in the woods, listening for any hint of a sound that could indicate water. He dropped to all fours as Padfoot, sniffing the wind lightly for any hint of that faint sweet smell. Nothing.
He survived most of the last year as Padfoot. Hidden in the night, he prowled on paws calloused by the miles, curling into himself against the harsh cold of winter. He snuck into basements and allies, anything to escape the biting wind. Eating out of trash bins – the rank smell appealed to Padfoot but turned Sirius' stomach. Keeping up with news when he could find the occasional newspaper. Living so long as a dog that he was reduced to the barest of emotions and thoughts, loose fibers of being without cohesion. He knew he couldn't do it forever.
Sirius needed a place to live. A safe place, somewhere to lay low. If nothing else, it was necessary because of Harry. The boy looked so much like James, with that same reckless loyalty that made James both frustrating and admirable. And that reckless loyalty was the same thing that would cause Sirius to make sure he was there for his godson – no matter what it took, he couldn't let James down.
He clambered onto Buckbeak clumsily, limbs numb and out of practice. Buckbeak shuffled, stretched his wings and suddenly took off, Sirius' arms wrapped tightly about his neck, face buried in the feathers, relishing contact.
"I think we both know where to go, right Buckbeak?" he whispered.
Remus spun neatly into the cold ashes in his abandoned house. Stepping from the fireplace, he shifted the load he carried to a nearby chair and walked to the kitchen, waving his wand as he walked. Sparks into flames and the room was dimly lit once more, though the cobwebbed corners remained encased in darkness.
The house showed all the signs of a year's vacancy. A fine layer of grit covered every surface and a permanent chill hung in the air. He ignored it for the time being and started a kettle of water for some tea.
After a year at Hogwarts, the silence of his own home prickled his skin. There was a soft edge to every sound, a hush that seemed to fall even as he did his best to be noisy, just to prove his existence. But before the silence had a chance to press him into anonymity once again, there was the gentlest hint of a tap at his back door.
Sirius Black, looking even more tattered in the waning daylight, leaned against the doorframe in a feeble imitation of his former arrogance. He tried for a self-confident grin but too late remembered the state of his teeth and reigned it in to a bemused smirk.
"Come on in, Sirius," Remus sighed. Though he knew his old friend was attempting to lighten the mood, all he could see in that face was the years that had passed, the beatings they'd both endured, the distance between who they thought they would be and who they had become.
Sirius cupped his hands around the hot mug, watching the blue tinge seep from his fingers.
"It wouldn't be permanent or anything. And of course I'd chip in for food and all."
"Don't worry about it," Remus murmured as he divvied up the meager portion of food he had acquired at Hogwarts to sustain himself until a trip to the store tomorrow. "As long as you need."
"Just a week or two," Sirius insisted. "I know…I know things aren't the way they used to be, and I don't want to impose. I just need to find another place to go and I'll be gone. If not…I'll work something out."
"You aren't going back to living on the streets as a stray dog. You'll stay here as long as you need to, Pads."
Sirius peered up through his long, tangled hair. "You sure?"
"You're my friend. I'm sure." Remus leveled him with a long look. "You're still my best friend."
Sirius nodded and looked down into his tea. He felt he should say that Remus was his too, but then he also felt that that was childish. He assumed it was understood.
He had been in prison his entire adult life. He knew how to be an adult, he knew he was one. But his instincts for relating to others had not grown in the last twelve years. He did not know these people anymore. Though he believed the core of who someone was had to remain the same, who knew how Remus spent his time, or how he had dealt with the death of all his friends?
Remus gently pushed a plate of food into Sirius' line of sight. Sirius glanced up again, and after Remus took a bite of his own food, Sirius began to eat ravenously.
"Slow down," Remus warned. Just as he had always admonished James. No one is going to take it away from you. In Azkaban, they did.
Sirius forced himself to stop, take a sip of tea. Four deep breaths. He ate two more bites and abruptly realize he was full. That his stomach ached. That even though he had finished only half the food before him, he could not eat anymore. He watched miserably as Remus finished his own food.
"Do you want…?" Sirius trailed off, nodding at his remaining food.
"I'm alright. You sure you don't want any more?"
"I…I can't. I'm sorry."
"It's okay. I thought this might happen." Remus cleared the plates and stowed the leftover food. "You'll probably have to work up to full meals again, since you've been –" He stopped abruptly.
"Starving." Sirius supplied. Remus winced, and Sirius could see the flash of memory in his eyes, of protruding ribs and paper skin. Some things were still hard.
"You probably want to get cleaned up," Remus said, interrupting the torrent of thoughts that had flooded Sirius' mind. He led Sirius to the bathroom, handed him a spare set of pajamas, a toothbrush, a towel. "I'll let you have the bed."
"No," Sirius shook his head, vehement. "I'll take the couch."
"It's really fine –"
"I don't need a bed," Sirius insisted. "After everything…anything would be comfortable to me. Really. I'll take the couch."
Sirius took a long shower, until the water ran clean and clear, until he could stand the texture of his hair once more. He took even longer scrutinizing himself in the mirror. The body wasted by prison and by the years before that too. The scars and the bones and the wounds that just won't heal.
He borrowed a comb, worked through his hair until it fell smoothly, then borrowed some scissors and trimmed it to just below his shoulders where it always used to be. He asked Remus for a wand, and he fixed his teeth, brushed them, rinsed.
Sirius curled up on the couch with the blanket and pillow Remus left for him. Drew his legs up to his chest as he used to as a child, rested his chin on his knee and watched each tear land in his hair. For all that was gained and lost in a day, for all that was lost in twelve years. For everything he used to be and was not anymore. For all the things he should have been and would never be.
When Remus woke up in the morning and padded quietly through the house, he would find, not Sirius, but Padfoot, curled on the floor, tail covering his nose, tracks of tears still glistening in his fur.