A.N./ Funnily, I got the idea for this story when my brother and his best friend pulled me into the pool while I was still on my clothes. I associated the feeling of my heavy jeans with the feeling of fur. I don't know, it was just an idea I needed to get out. It's short, I know, but I get addicted to reviews like no one else's business.
All That Mattered
Sirius hit the icy waters like falling from a tall building onto cement. The icy chill and pain did not touch him, however. All he could think about how he was finally getting away from that hell. His fur dragged him down further, but he fought against it. He kicked his four legs as fast as he could without them detaching from his thin, hollow body; his muscles burned with exhaustion. His breathe rattled in his chest, drowned by the salty water swallowing him alive. His once waterproof coat was too brittle and damaged to protect himself now and the bitter cold water sent little shots of pain over his skin like tiny daggers piercing right down to his bones. But it was the fear that drove him and he masochistically drank it all up, controlling it to fuel him further and further away from Azkaban. It was only the beginning, he knew, but he needed to use what he could to his advantage and he thanked every star above him that he wasn't completely aware of what pains he was in store for. It didn't seem to matter, anyway.
He did not rest until he could no longer feel the emptiness, the hatred, the sorrow that Azkaban made him feel. This was the first time he looked around him since he had slipped through the bars of his cell, crept along the murky corridors, and jump paws first into the rough waters. Azkaban was now only a gloomy haze in the distance behind him. The ever-present fog settled around the castle, cloaking it from outsiders and as that mist settled, the haze in his own mind cleared. He knew what he was out here to do: kill Peter and find Harry. He continued to paddle through the pain that had fully caught up to him now, preoccupied with his own thoughts for the time being.
He tried to remember anything outside of Harry and Peter, but no matter how he tried all he felt was a void in his heart. He couldn't quite place what he was missing. He had a purpose and that was all that truly mattered. Wasn't it? He had gone so long without a purpose that he really did not know anymore. But the closer he approached the other side of the sea to land, the more he could remember broader pieces about his life. The first thing he remembered was James and Lily, how he had been their secret keeper, how he used to be an Auror. He tried to think of anything else outside of that, like where he used to live, what used to make him happy. He couldn't even remember his favorite color; he had gone so long without it.
He would become so tired, physically and emotionally, that every once and a while he would just float for a few minutes to rest his limbs. He did not dare change back because he knew he would have more strength staying as Padfoot and that morphing would harm him rather that help him. Also, he knew that he could easily be tracked once in his human form. The more important thing he felt was that he should have enough energy. He had to channel it so he could reach land, run when he did get there, and try and take back the life that was stolen from him so long ago.
When he was just about to give up and collapse, his paw brushed rock and sand. Through the darkness of night he could make out land, a pale half moon glimmering on the sand as its beams danced on the black waves around him. He frantically pulled his deadened body forward, swerving to avoid crashing into the rocks. Climbing onto the shore, he blindly stumbled into the nearest cave he could find. The rocks were as black as the waves and the cave seemed colder than the air outside. He didn't even notice, nor care, over how unsuitable the cave was for sleeping until he blacked out.
He was awakened by his body set into a frenzy of tremors and he couldn't tell whether it was because he was so cold or how that he couldn't feel his paws or that his stomach was reduced to a gaping empty hole in his body. Either way, he dragged himself out of his cave to see that it was still night. He didn't know if he had only been asleep for a few hours or if he had slept through a whole day, or even a whole week. He just knew he had to keep traveling.
He picked himself up and ran as fast as his body would allow him to. He traveled for miles before he stopped, but it was only to hunt a rabbit. He feasted ravenously on the carcass, taking only a few moments to lick his muzzle and his bleeding paws clean. The moonlight led him on his way as he tread through the moors. There was something about that eerie glow that reminded him of something warm despite its unwelcoming light. This didn't make any sense to him but the hole in his heart constricted, and he tried to remember what it could mean. He remembered James, definitely. Entailed, of course, were Lily, little Harry, and Peter. But there was someone else in the equation. Someone more important than his own life. It was like there was this mysterious silhouette in his mind and his heart and nothing else would click into place until he revealed the shadow's true form.
After the sun rose, bright against the pale sky, he found a nearby alcove of trees outside a tiny village. Afraid that he would not be welcomed by the farmers and sheepherders, he hid to avoid confrontation. He slept again, curled under a thicket. The air around him started to get warmer and he allowed himself a second to relax as images of tawny hair and golden eyes occupied his thoughts. The wind blew through his fur like gentle caresses of a lover's fingers and his paw twitched from the pleasure of it.
Every time he stopped to rest, he saw the same person in his dreams. He couldn't quite make out the face after a few days of traveling, but he started to hear a voice. It was soft and comforting and warm, like honey flowing. It coaxed him on, called to him, accompanied him in his loneliness and comforted him almost as much as the thought of killing that rat, Peter. He started to live off of his revenge and that voice.
The more villages and towns he saw, the more he could remember and tell where he was. He was able to know which town he was going to hit next and whether he would find trouble there in his form. When he reached one, he knew for certain that he had been there before. He knew that someone there would unlock a piece of his past. So, in the dead of night, he would be able to search the grounds and try and recall more things he had lost. He was surprised, however, that when he inspected the town nothing stood out. Perhaps it had changed since he had been around, but he knew that he needed to be here. Something was here, and for a while he needed to take the time to follow his instincts.
It wasn't until he crossed a dirt path leading into a small alcove just outside of the sleepy town that he knew his answer lay just ahead. He followed the path until he reached a small brown house. It was very quaint with a tiny garden of herbs. The house had seen better days, for it seemed that the owner did not take much time on the up keep. Shingles were falling from the room and the windows hadn't been properly cleaned for what looked like a good ten years. He thought certainly no one was living there and he was hoping that the building was vacant so he could finally find some dry shelter. Curious, he made his way to one of the windows and put his muddy paws on the pane to steady himself.
Inside, there were a few boxes lying around the wooden floor. Some were sealed, some not, as if the person inside were just moving in or out. There wasn't much in the room. A few books were pilled around the edge of his view, leading to a hall and there were no remnants of furniture. When he assured himself that there was no movement, he made his way around the home, peering into every window until he found the occupier. The last window he peered through showed a room with the only piece of furniture that he had seen. It was a bed in the corner of a dim room, sheets rumpled with a man sleeping with his back to Sirius. On the wall where the bed rested against were scraps of paper tacked up. He could read newspaper trimmings, both wizard and muggle, from "Murder's Colour: Black" to "Black's Escape Spreads Panic!" He could see a few of these clips had his picture, which secured his curiosity. Who would be so obsessed as to have followed his story through the years, a story that he himself hadn't known was as public as he'd hope it po0gtnwouldn't be. Whoever the person may be, he was also a wizard and Sirius looked around the room to try to identify the person.
Unexpectedly, the man on the bed stirred and turned to face him. The man was extremely thin with slim features and warm brown hair. Then, before a seconds thought, Sirius knew who the man was. Before he could even utter a cry, Remus jolted from the bed. He looked around him, shook out his hair feebly, and rubbed his face roughly. After a few moments to recover from his nightmare, he visibly sighed and looked to the wall beside him. Gingerly, he lifted a shaky hand and ran a finger over the words in the articles. His hand rested next the clipping that held Sirius' face. Remus froze, starring at the picture. His thumb grazed over the picture's cheek, sending Sirius' own jaw line ablaze. For the first time in over a decade Sirius could remember the feeling of carnal pleasure at the thought of Remus wanting to touch him. Memories of nights with the man weighed heavily in his stomach and his legs began to shake, causing him to nearly fall from the pane.
With no warning, however, Remus began ripping the articles off the wall savagely, screaming as loudly as he could. Sirius' emotions changed so quickly that his head hurt and his heart ached as he watched the man tear each and every article off the wall, sending them flying to the floor where they lay rumbled and forgotten. Remus shredded the papers in his hands, the rage on his face turning slowly into something else. It was a look that Sirius was very familiar with, not only from his own experiences but from the faces of the men in women in Azkaban: despair. Remus jumped out of the bed quickly and ran from the room into the hall.
He had found Remus. Sweet, beautiful, Remus that held his heart. Sirius' head started spinning and he fell from the windowpane. Memories flooded him so fast he could barely stand. He remembered the love they had shared and that he continued to feel.
Remus was the only person he had not allowed himself to remember in Azkaban not because it was too painful to think of him, but to remember the happiness he felt with him. The dementors feasted upon those wonderful memories and he couldn't bare the thought of loosing them. It seemed, however, that he had anyway. It made his empty stomach heave. He couldn't believe that Remus was a mere wall away from him and all he could do was sit there and whimper. He knew that if he did walk in and explain himself only pain would await him, and more importantly, Remus. He began to imagine the years of torment Remus must have endured. But, then again, hadn't they all gone through their own little hell?
He weakly jumped back on the pane to watch the room. Remus was returning, his face sickly and pale. He wiped the cold sweat from his face and sat on the bed, looking around at the scraps of paper that now littered his floor. He stared into the distance until his eyes began to water and he lifted a hand to his face to wipe the tears away. Sirius couldn't control his own emotion. After a few of these horrible minutes, Remus got up, pulling out a piece of parchment from one of the small boxes in the room. Sirius knew that he needed to move on. So, after one last glance, he jumped from the window and ran in the other direction, fighting the lump in his throat that made him want to howl.
He knew now, more than ever, that he needed to clear his name. If Remus was in this bad of shape, he had no idea how horribly little Harry must have lived. Remus was strong, but Harry was so young. Peter deserved to die, painfully, and by his hands. He imagined curling his fingers around his chubby neck. He thought of how glorious it would feel to choke the life out of him in James' and Lily's names. He could see his face turning blue, for Harry. He could feel the exhilaration of finally riding the world from his filth, for Remus.
Running faster, he knew now that the pain didn't matter, the hunger didn't matter, even the memories didn't matter. All that mattered was that he could have his life back. He'd be able to feel Harry's happiness once more. He'd be able to feel Remus' arms around him again. And they'd be a family, the three of them. They'd have a house and a yard and all the freedom any man could ever hope for. The tears and blood and sweat ran freely now and, for the first time in over twelve years, he felt alive. It choked him, sent butterflies in his stomach, and writhing ache within his heart.