It's Not the Cold that Seeps into his Bones
Inspired by blvnt-art on tumblr, her amazing drawing of Sirius Black's first day in Azkaban. How can a drawing be so emotional?
. /4679d5a5a42f5d9e881e4578e93f20a6/tumblr_p3xwbyAETj1uj948co1_
I couldn't stop thinking about it last night, couldn't sleep, and wrote this instead...
Hopefully means will get a sleep tonight!
…..
"What have I done?" he whispers incoherently, amid the rain, and the hissing smoke and stench of blasted flesh.
He's coughing, and he finds it hard to stand, his hair is singed. He can hear voices screaming and crying in the background, commotion, the sound of muggle emergency services. The place is swarming with Aurors, taking statements from people and whisking grey, silvery material away for storage in the official Ministry of Magic pensieve. They move to obliviate, left, right and centre, shouting orders, the walkie-talkies in their hands are wands, their uniforms still transfigured to look like policemen.
He can't see his own wand. He looks through the smouldering rubble and he can't see Pettigrew, the traitor. The rat. He's gone. And with him, his best chance of proving that Sirius Black is innocent. Why did he go after Wormtail? To avenge his nearer than brother, his loved like a sister, his Godson's happiness? Or to put it off, this having to feel the loss, the grief?
To feel only anger, when the primary emotion is anguish?
A memory flashes unbidden - the end of Fifth Year in Hogwarts, the day after Snape nearly died because of The Prank, in Dumbledore's office.
"You took an extremely ill-judged, impulsive and dangerous decision last night. We both know that Snape could have died, or been bitten, and Remus would never have been able to forgive himself. You need to learn how to regulate your emotions, Sirius. It is not an easy thing to learn. We cannot change our temperament easily, and we learn how to calm ourselves, like most things, from our parents. For somebody born with a fiery character and parents such as yours, it is particularly difficult."
He had learnt nothing.
"What have you done?" growls an Auror, who Sirius recognises vaguely as a past pupil from his own house, who graduated a few years ahead of them. "You killed them, you killed them, and now you've killed another wizard and twelve muggles. Azkaban is too good for you, Black!"
He looks like he's going to punch Sirius in the face, but he restrains himself.
"Take the bastard away, before I do something I'll regret," he says, between his teeth, to the three Aurors holding Sirius. His voice is cold.
…
They take him to the Ministry of Magic, briefly. Take a photo of him.
Just before they do, an owl arrives. For him. He recognises the bird, and shudders. Its talons cruel, its beak pointed, its eyes grey. Walburga's. The message is read out to him curtly.
"I have no idea what you're playing at. I can only imagine you must have been involved in killing the best wizard the world has ever known, how, I do not know. It horrifies me. My only comfort is the fact that you have been arrested for the death of the Potters. Clearly untrue. But it shall be of some solace to me, that, and your brother's honourable death for The Cause. I dare say the Aurors will think you faked this message, they are fools. At least I shall not dread receiving news of you from now on."
He laughs then, a soulless, bitter laugh, and he recalls Regulus' face the night he left Grimmauld Place. His mother, of all people, is the only one who guesses the truth, that he is not the traitor. Oh, what delirious irony!
He sounds manic, slightly deranged.
The photograph is shot.
"Perhaps he is mad?" says a young trainee Auror, eying Sirius with the nearest thing to pity that he has seen all day. "Should he go to St. Mungo's instead for a review?"
"Mad?" scoffs the Head Auror, a dark and lean individual with a crooked nose.
He stares at Sirius with nothing but contempt. He picks up his parchments and places them inside a folder, shaking them neatly into place. Or perhaps his hands are shaking for another reason.
"You picked the wrong side, Black. Voldemort is dead. Despite you handing over your friends to him, he's gone now. The entire wizarding community is celebrating. Except those who knew James and Lily."
"When did you turn?" he continues, staring at Sirius intently, walking over to stand in front of him, his face nearly touching Sirius' own. "Was it you who betrayed Dearborn? He was like a brother to me. And Marlene? She was my cousin. We should have guessed. You were one of them. A Black. They're all bad, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
He says this all without a trace of emotion.
Sirius swallows. Surely he must be able to prove it wasn't him.
"My wand," he says, trying to keep desperation out of his voice. "Check my wand. Ask Hagrid. I gave him Harry. I gave him the baby. I told him I was going after Pettigrew."
The Head Auror laughs, like he has said something highly amusing.
"Dear me, how terribly droll! Do you forget the trial only a few summers ago? Wands can be manipulated. You of all people should recall that? Wasn't your father involved? Did you think we'd forget the Blacks and their knowledge of Dark Magic? Pettigrew is dead, you know that, a noble death, all that's left of him a fucking finger!"
He shakes his head lightly.
"There will be no trial. We have all the evidence we need. You may send one owl. We depart in an hour."
He looks at Sirius triumphantly then.
…
What can he say to Remus? When he treated him so despicably? When he wrongly accused him? Blackened his name to James and Lily? When he failed him again, just like he did with the Snape incident?
He remembers in 6th Year when he finally had the balls to apologise to Remus, and when Remus had the kindness to take him at his word.
"Get up and I'll forgive you, you bastard!" said Remus flatly.
"Oh!" said Sirius, shock written all over his face.
Remus pulled him up strongly, just as the group of students walked past, eying them with confusion.
They stood looking at each other in silence for a few moments.
"Right," said Remus grimly. "If you ever pull another stunt like that again, you're dead, understood?"
Sirius nodded, unable to stop the grin that lit his face.
"Solemnly swear! You won't regret this, I won't let you down ever again, Moony!" he said sincerely.
"You're doing every one of my turns to Hogsmeade for party supplies for the rest of the year," Remus stated matter-of-factly.
"Fair enough," agreed Sirius happily, unable to believe his good fortune.
"And I may ask you for other favours which I haven't thought of yet, seeing as you didn't give me the chance to prepare myself," continued Remus, arms crossed.
Sirius laughed, he had a tingling feeling in his stomach.
"Fine, Moony, your wish is my command!" he said with a wink.
Remus rolled his eyes and then spontaneously reached out and hugged him.
…
"I was wrong Remus.
I should have known it would never be you.
I never deserved you."
A tear splashes onto the parchment.
He stares at the paper. There's so much more he wants to say. Is he a horrible person that he is thinking of his Love at such a time? Thinking of Remus, and wanting him so desperately to know he wasn't the spy? To ask for forgiveness, once more? So, this is how Remus felt, because of him. He's gripping the quill so hard that it breaks. He's trembling now. He sits back. Wordlessly the trainee Auror takes it and attaches it to a Ministry owl and leaves. He doesn't expect a reply. He won't get the reply anyway, as he'll be gone by then.
(There is no reply. Only the same piece of parchment, furiously crumpled, with Return to Sender written on the back of it in a shaky, barely legible script.)
They leave for Azkaban. The looks of hatred in the Aurors' eyes. He looks back at them, like he's learnt to do from years of putting up with similar from his own family. Only this is worse, he supposes, because he respects them. Still, he holds his head up high, straight back, as he always does in such circumstances.
….
They're in Azkaban now. The place is cold, so cold. Maybe it's the cold seeping into his bones, maybe it's the wand searing a pattern onto the skin of his neck, maybe he's weaker than he thought. He had hoped to block this memory for a while longer.
He's back standing in front of the house in Godric's Hollow. This morning. The door is gone. Blasted off its hinges. He can see James' body, lying haphazardly on the floor, blocking the way up the stairs. His glasses lie on the floor near his face, left lens cracked. His eyes are open. There's no fear on his face, what is that look? Perhaps hope?
The bastard stepped on him to get upstairs, to get to Harry, it's still raining heavily, and the imprint of his muddy boot is visible on James' chest. He drops to his knees then, unable to proceed. He says lots of things to him, silently, holding his cold hand.
Why didn't he remain their secret keeper, like James wanted?
"What have I done?" echoes in the shell of a building.
He finds Lily, crumpled in front of the cot bed. Right in front of Harry. He can't make himself come in. Can't look at her even.
Harry wakes him from this dissociative state. He's clutching the cot sides and crying his name urgently. A strange ragged cut on his forehead, which he seems unaware of.
"Papoo! Papoo! Mamma!" He's pointing to the floor, at her, and then up at him, and Sirius' heart is broken looking at his Godson.
"She's sleeping, Harry! Night, night, mamma," he chokes out, trying to smile.
Harry nods solemnly, like Padfoot can fix it.
"Dada," he says, his tear streaked face looking at Sirius. His voice croaky from the long crying on his own. "All gone?"
His eyes widen and he thinks he may fall apart now, but he finds himself gently lifting Harry up and whispering soothing words as he holds him close to his chest, hand stroking his wispy, sticking-up black hair.
"Daddy's ok now, he's ok now. Just sleeping, like Mamma."
Harry has stopped crying, his breath still irregular, like he's hiccuping.
"Bold man!" he whispers into Sirius' t-shirt.
"Yes, bold man all gone now," Sirius says softly.
"All gone," repeats Harry, he sounds very tired.
"Padfoot is here, you can sleep now, Prongslet," he whispers, because his voice is trembling again.
Harry is asleep in a heartbeat, his exhausted little face, scrunched up like he's trying to figure out what's wrong. Sirius mutters a heating charm on him and a cleaning spell, his onesie all dry and soft again. Then a dreamless sleep charm, Merlin knows how many of those he'll need.
He hears Hagrid's anxious voice, still booming even when he thinks he's being quiet. He walks slowly down the stairs and pauses. Hagrid is standing dumbstruck looking at James, his huge hand in front of his mouth, in disbelief.
"Harry's ok, he's ok," he says softly, handing him over to Hagrid who looks terrified at the sleeping child. "They're both dead."
It's like the truth hits him when he speaks it. He's overcome with rage, rage against himself, against Pettigrew, against Voldemort, rage that Harry will never know his parents, how much they loved him. Rage that he dared suspect Remus.
"I've got to find Pettigrew," he continues, his voice harsh now. "Take care of him, Hagrid, I'll be back soon, take him to Dumbledore, please. Take my motorbike, you remember how to use it?"
Hagrid loves that bike. He's crying, but he mumbles goodbye, holding Harry gingerly in his massive, steady embrace.
He has no doubt that he can track down the traitor and kill him. That's all he can think about now, blinded by rage and despair. But perhaps a part of him knows he's heading for disaster. He never would have given his bike on loan to anyone before.
…
They remove his leather jacket, all his clothes. He's placed in the prisoners' uniform. Thin dark stripes, robes. No more muggle clothes. Cold. They shove him onto his knees. He hears the clink of cold metal onto his wrists, arms stretched out to the sides. Hears the clink of heavy chains attaching to his ankles too. He's on his knees.
They don't deign to speak to him.
Solitary confinement.
The cell door clangs shut. The metal bars let the cold air float inside. Cold air and the looming presence of dementors.
He bows his head, matted hair falling over his face.
"I never betrayed Lily and James. I would have died before I betrayed them!" he finally screams, to nobody in particular.
It's not the cold seeping into his bones. Perhaps he deserves this. His knees give way, arms still tethered by chains, head still hanging.
"What have I done?"
fin
The films got so many things wrong - the Marauders' ages (their youth makes it so poignant), Harry's age: he would have looked a lot older and would be able to talk a bit, especially with very clever parents, he's be more advanced than an average 15-month-old, hence his vocab in this story.