All characters and their tragic fates belong to one J.K. Rowling.
THE LAST MARAUDER
Remus knocks back yet another Firewhisky, praying that it will be the one to take the edge of things, that it will be the one to make everything go away. But he knows all too well that no matter how much alcohol he downs, it won't erase his memories. No amount of alcohol will ever be able to change the past.
That does not stop him from ordering one more round.
Exactly ten years have passed since—since that day, and the images hunting his visions are as vivid as ever. The world has changed a lot in those ten years, and so has he. His hair has already started to turn gray at the temples, and he looks so much older than he actually is. Sirius would always joke and say that he was a forty-year-old man trapped inside a teenage boy's body – always the serious one in the bunch, with his books and worn, dignified clothes. Remus would always point out that it was, in fact, a werewolf trapped in there, and if such an old man would exist, he would most likely had come to a fateful end already. These days he feels like a young boy trapped inside that grown man's body. Scarred, graying, and old.
He lets his whiskey make use for its name as it burns his throat, making him cough. A man turns to look at him, and there's a flicker of recognition there. Perhaps they went to Hogwarts together, or perhaps they've both been drinking in the same dingy bar before, as Remus does on this day every year. No, that's not it. With a sinking heart Remus realises that the only reason he recognises the man is because there's something in the way he carries himself that is reminiscent of how James would carry himself. The jet black hair that can't quite be tamed by gravity or combs, the serene yet arrogant expression on his face, that's how James would've—
But no, James is dead. Peter is dead. Sirius is… Sirius might as well be dead, too, locked away in Azkaban for the Dementors to suck dry of every trace of human emotion. Remus is all alone. It's been ten years, and it still doesn't make sense. Remus knows Sirius – more so than he perhaps would let on. To James and to Peter he was always the prankster, with his suave charm and knack for trouble. He was the boy who would ride that blasted motorbike of his high enough to touch the stars, or low enough to almost crash into the streets below. And even when he did crash into the streets for his foolish and reckless flying, there would still be a huge grin plastered on his face. Remus or James would do their best to perform the required healing charms, while Peter would stand by the side, pale faced and scared they would get into trouble. Sirius always got them into trouble; knowing Sirius was to invite trouble into your living room, where it would promptly eat all your pies before you had a chance to get to them. Remus never admitted to it, but he invited it with open arms.
Sirius was careless, yes, even reckless, but a murderer? Remus refused to believe it. Nobody knew how much Sirius could look like a wounded puppy sometimes, when he let the tough exterior fall, to reveal the scared and hurt young man within. It wasn't James who got to see that part of him; Sirius had picked Remus for that, and only Remus. He had threatened to do unspeakable things, most likely involving copious amounts of dungbombs, if Remus as much as breathed a word of it to anyone else. Remus couldn't care less about the dungbombs, he would never have said anything, simply out of gratitude.
And for how surprisingly soft Sirius' lips were.
Remus orders another Firewhisky.