A/N: I tried to make myself wait til the weekend to post this so I could keep writing well ahead of where I'm posting... but I got too excited. Your four reviews have fed my addiction and I must have more! Hope y'all like it!

It took him a week to determine that he only had one option: sneak out as Padfoot. When the dementors brought food, they were not careful opening the door. They were complacent in the fact that people stayed as far away as fucking possible when a dementor was close. Just being housed in the same facility as them was enough to drive a man mad- it did drive them mad, but when they were within arm's reach most people were rendered nearly comatose. Sirius knew full well that if it weren't for Padfoot he'd be a quivering lump of terrified remains just like the rest of them.

So his plan was utterly, foolishly simple. It was either absolutely fucking brilliant or his mind had really, truly broken and he'd never noticed. Either way he was trying it. All systems go.

So it was that a week after his realization that the rat Pettigrew was alive, well, and in close quarters with his godson, Sirius Black did something so simple as to slide through the open door of his cell, narrowly missing trodding on the cloak of the dementor dropping off his dinner rations. He walked silently, as stealthily as possible down the dark corridor. He wanted to run, so badly, but knew he needed stealth much more than speed. He kept his ears cocked back, and once looked over his shoulder to see that dinner service continued as if nothing had happened. Merlin, they hadn't noticed him pass! He'd realized very early on that the dementors couldn't really understand him as Padfoot, but he hadn't realized that it was to the extent that he could brush past them and have them be completely unaware. He threaded his way through the maze of dank corridors, following the barest whiff of fresh salty air. Finally he found the exit, not even guarded, and ducked out into the night. Padfoot huffed out a doggy laugh as Sirius thought about how overly confident the ministry was in the dementors. Not that he was complaining, mind.

He slunk along the base of the wall, inches from the cliff and the sheer drop into the North Sea. He heard the crash of the waves on the rocks below and was not looking forward to plunging into that icy water but knew there was nothing for it but to swim. He'd need to find some food though, it was going to be an extremely long swim to the mainland; he needed the fuel. He walked slowly and cautiously around the side of the prison to the guard shack at the entrance. This was pretty much his only shot… this was the only place with full-time wizards on the island. They were only here because dementors couldn't read paperwork and visitors' passes. If he couldn't raid a lunch tin or something he'd be stuck stalking rats on the rocks. He shuddered. He hated when it came to that. He'd been forced to resort to the rats that scurried through his cell occasionally over the years when there were food shortages or something spoiled. It was not something he enjoyed, but it was better than drowning in the middle of the North Sea because he was weak with hunger.

He found success in not one but two lunch tins in the guard shack. He waited out of sight until they left to take their patrols then darted in and quickly changed back to human… paws couldn't work the latches. He snatched one of two sandwiches from the first lunch and a large hunk of cheese out of the second. He'd love to have everything; it looked delicious, but didn't want to raise an alarm. By taking one item from each he hoped that the guards would brush it off saying 'the wife forgot my second sandwich today!' or 'I could've sworn I put another snack in here…' He quickly shrunk back to Padfoot and grabbed his bounty in his mouth and snuck back outside. He nimbly trotted down some large boulders until he was down closer to the water, closer than any guard would venture and well out of sight. He found a spot where the rock overhung slightly and debated changing back to human… but the food now had dog slobber on it. As much as he'd like to eat the sandwich as a human… the slobber was a little off putting. He ate the sandwich quickly- it was so delicious he had to stop himself making obscene noises- but tucked the cheese into a dryish-looking nook; his stomach had shrunk over the years and he wouldn't be able to eat any more for a few hours. He'd hunker down for the night, try to get some good sleep and hit the water just before sunrise to be out of sight before it was light enough to spy him on the waves. He'd weighed the options over the few days and decided to risk most of the swim during daylight. That water was going to be freezing and even as Padfoot he'd be cold but weak sunlight would be warmer than black night. It'd make him feel better about it anyways.

He'd stay Padfoot for the night, that fur coat would be much warmer than the rag of a prison uniform he had. He could not fucking wait to get to the mainland and find somewhere warm and dry to sleep. And soft. Oh he couldn't wait for a real bed. Would he even be able to sleep on a soft mattress anymore, being so used to his measly blankets on the hard floor? He clamped down on his building euphoria at his success so far by reminding himself that he was far from safe yet. Hunkering down into as small a ball as Padfoot could curl; he closed his eyes and waited for dawn, already looking forward to his block of cheese for breakfast.

He'd woken in the middle of the night and decided it was too risky to stay on the island any longer. He scarfed down his cheese and started swimming. The swim was long. It was long and it was fucking cold. The seas were high and apparently Padfoot got seasick. He didn't know it was possible for dogs to vomit while swimming, but he'd learned that lesson and had unfortunately revisited his cheesy breakfast. He'd wondered if he was going to make it at all a few times. Twice he'd had to switch forms to float on his back and let his muscles rest… Padfoot, he discovered, did not float at all.

When he finally staggered- staggering is even more awkward with four legs- onto the shore he didn't make it far before he collapsed and had to lay there for a half hour or so until he recovered enough to find somewhere better to rest. Luckily, he'd washed up near a park and he was able to raid the trash bin behind a snack stand. With a full stomach and mostly dry fur he wandered through the town, trying to figure out just where the hell he was and what he was going to do. So far his plan was to make his way down to Grimmauld Place and stake it out to see if anyone was using it. He suspected that his own cottage would've been taken back by the ministry so he wasn't even going to waste time going by there. He hoped he could get back into Grimmauld Place… as much as he hated it. He was the last of the Blacks though, and doubted that his parents ever bothered to banish him from the property and so it should be rightfully his. He only hoped no one else had staked a claim or gotten past the wards.

He spent nearly a month making his way south, nicking papers when he came to wizard towns and food anywhere he found it. Every night he stared up at the open sky in wonder. He hadn't been out in the open in so long. The first week or so he barely slept, feeling very exposed and vulnerable. He'd had to find small alleyways to stay in before he was able to sleep through the night. As time went on he became slightly more comfortable with the freedom and open space. His energy levels increased as he was finally getting some physical activity and was able to eat at least one decent meal a day, not to mention his emotional stability now that he was away from the dementors. His fury at Peter was never far from his mind though; it was still his driving force. Several times he had to remind himself that rash decision were a terrible idea; he wanted to badly to find the Weasley's home and find that damn rat and tear him limb from limb… but it had been this angry impulsivity that landed him in Azkaban in the first place; if he'd just gone with Hagrid and Harry that night he'd have been able to explain the situation to Dumbledore. If he hadn't lost his damn mind to grief and anger and gone after Peter… ugh Peter. He forced himself to keep Harry in his mind, not revenge. This became his coping mechanism against his baser instincts of anger and revenge. Focus on Harry.

As he made his way closer to London, the urge to see his godson became overwhelming. If he could find Peter and prove his innocence, would Harry ever forgive him? He knew that Peter had been the one who gave the secret up, but it was his, Sirius', fault that Peter had been trusted with the secret in the first place. He wanted to know his godson more than he could say. He needed to tell him stories about his parents, he needed to make sure that the kid knew how loved he was. He needed to be there for him like James and Lily would have wanted.

Now the only question was where to find him. The rumor had gone through the prison that Harry'd been sent to live with muggle relations after… after that night. The wizarding world was outraged, and a hateful guard had made sure to inform him that the Boy Who Lived had been sent to muggles and it was entirely his fault. Then the bastard had delivered a hard kick in the ribs, like news of Harry's placement hadn't been shock enough.

Prongs had had no muggle relatives, so it must've been Lily's family. Her parents had passed while they were still at Hogwarts, but she did have a sister. A bitch of a sister; he'd met her briefly at their parents' memorial. Lily rarely talked about her but he'd once walked in their kitchen door to find her quietly weeping at the table over the post. He'd been shocked when she'd confessed that her sister had sent back her Christmas card unopened. He'd picked up the envelope and stared at the RETURN TO SENDER scrawled heartlessly across the front as he listened to Lily tearfully give him the rundown of the relationship, or lack thereof, with her muggle sister. He could understand her sorrow; no matter what Regulus chose to do with his life, part of him would always miss his brother.

What had been the address of that letter? It had been in Surrey, he remembered that because he had offered to pop over and spray paint rude things on their front door. What was their name… Dungley? Hadn't he called them Dungley to try and make her laugh? But that wasn't their actual name, just similar…. Dursley! He could just look them up! Brilliant. Now to steal some clothes so that he could use a phone booth….

Three days later he arrived as Padfoot on Privet Drive in Little Whinging and strolled casually down the sidewalk looking at house numbers. As he passed number eight he heard shouting and ducked into a hydrangea bush. He peeked out and nearly dropped dead at what met his sight. A carbon copy of adolescent James Potter was storming up the street towards him. Merlin's saggy bollocks, it could be no one but Harry. And he had a Hogwarts trunk; it was him! He stood frozen in shock for so long Harry had almost rounded the corner before he got it together to follow him. Where could he possibly be going, walking? He was too young to know how to Apparate… was he meeting someone? The kid seemed furious. Sirius quietly stalked his godson through the darkening streets, wondering where in the blue blazes he was going. Finally, after a quarter hour, he stopped by a play park and seemed to look around as if confused.

Sirius ducked into a narrow alley as Harry turned and sat on the curb. His head hung and his shoulders slouched as if in defeat. What was wrong with him? Without thinking, he took a step forward and Harry's head snapped up at the sound of a twig snapping under his paw. In an instant, Harry's wand was in his hand and he was on his feet. Sirius had only a moment to be proud of his godson's reflexes and instincts before they were both nearly run down by the Knight Bus. Sirius watched sadly as Harry boarded the bus and it whisked him away. It was for the best though; he couldn't have just changed back into himself and said "Hi, Harry! I'm your godfather! I've escaped from prison to commit the murder I was accused of in the first place!" No… it was better this way. He had to take care of things before he could contact Harry. He left Little Whinging and high-tailed it to Grimmauld Place in the hopes of being able to stay there and then make contact with someone to help him get that dirty rat.

. . . . . . . .

Sirius had watched his parents' house for two days before he finally ventured up the front steps. He wondered if he'd be able to get in without a wand, but he needn't have worried. As soon as he touched the knob the lock clicked and the door swung open. He sent a silent thank you to his father who, apparently, hadn't disowned him as the house recognized him. The place was covered in filth and he shut the door silently behind him, listening intently. He could tell by the undisturbed dust that no one had been in the house in years. He wasn't exactly sure how long his father had been dead… he'd already been in Azkaban. His lovely mother had passed not long after her favored Regulus had disappeared. Heartbreak, they said. Pah. As if his mother'd had a heart. He crept up the stairs on full alert, because really, Merlin only knew what was lurking there. He frowned as he pushed open the door to his childhood bedroom, conflicted at how he felt to be back there but it turned into a full-on grin when he saw that his mother hadn't been able to take his posters down. Victory.

Merlin, it looked exactly like it had the night he'd fled to the Potter's at sixteen. Here he stood at thirty-two and it looked untouched. He walked slowly in, gas lamps flickering to life; eyeing all the dust he'd have to clean by hand to make it habitable if he felt safe enough to stay. He spotted a simple brown box placed randomly in the middle of the floor. Well, he certainly hadn't left that there. The walked over to investigate and his hands paused when he read Black, Sirius O. printed in blocky letters across the top. It was still sealed. Curiosity getting the better of him, he immediately tore into the box and let out a surprised laugh when he pulled out his leather jacket. It dawned on him that this was what he'd been wearing that night. This had come from Azkaban. He pulled out a Rolling Stones t-shirt from where it had been crumpled unceremoniously underneath the jacket, this was his favorite shirt: his mother had hated it. He slowly went through the box; setting aside the watch that no longer kept time, sliding a tarnished silver ring onto the thumb of his right hand, he grinned at his motorcycle boots… he loved those things. But then his breath caught in his throat and he froze in disbelief. No. Surely not; it was too easy... He reached in and his eyes fluttered shut as his fingers slowly closed around the smooth wood of his wand. His entire arm tingled as he lifted it out of the box. They hadn't destroyed it? He couldn't believe they'd just tossed it in a box and given it to his family… but they usually snapped wands as a part of the sentencing! They had never officially sentenced him, but he assumed that they'd have snapped it. They had just chucked him in Azkaban and forgotten about him… perhaps it had just been forgotten about during the madness of Voldemort disappearing? An oversight? Some young auror in training told to take his things and give them to his family, not really knowing what to do without the official sentence of wand-snapping? He straightened up and stared reverently at his wand. This was really too good to believe. He glanced around and with a quick flick, Vanished the dust from his room. He laughed again in amazement. He spent the next half hour reducing the level of filth in his room before he realized how hungry he was. He passed a hand over his ribs and stomach. How long before he stopped looking like death warmed over? He needed to put some weight on before he met Harry… he didn't want to scare the kid. There was no way there'd be food in the kitchen...

"Kreacher?" He asked aloud, after sudden inspiration. With a sharp crack the elf in question appeared before him.

"Oh, it's the bad one. The one who broke mistress's heart." Kreacher glared up at him from under sagging eyelids.

"Yes, yes, I certainly did. Now. Is there any decent food to be had in this house?" He asked, hating the sight of the elf now more than ever. The fact that he looked old and frail made Sirius all the more bitter. He refused to feel sympathy for anything that had been involved in his dreadful childhood.

"Kreacher will cook for master Sirius if he wishes, but the pantry is empty." Kreacher answered him and continued under his breath, "Traitor that he is, shame of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black."

"Yes well, I want you to sneak to the market and get some food… enough for me for a week or so. I forbid to be seen by anyone that would recognize you as belonging to the Blacks, and I forbid you speaking to anyone. Is that understood?" He took the elf's glare as an affirmative answer and grinned as the elf left him alone again. He decided he'd need to spend some time in the kitchen to make it fit to eat in as apparently Kreacher hadn't been doing much of anything in regards to up keep. He strolled downstairs, not taking as much care to be quiet this time when a voice to his left nearly stopped his heart.

"YOU!"

He whipped his head around so fast his neck cracked and stared into the shocked face of his mother. He was sure his expression mirrored hers, even as hers turned to mad hatred.

"Ungrateful heathen! Shame of my flesh!"

"Mother, how lovely to see you." He glared sourly as he cast a silencing charm on her. "Shrew."

Walking away from his mother he made a mental note to ask Kreacher to move the portrait to the attic. Or burn it. Either way. It felt so good to use magic again. He thought it would be a good idea to place a new Fidelius charm on the house… it might occur to the officials at some point that he might come back here. Idiots.

He went about his evening, relishing in his freedom and his ability to perform magic. What also felt good? A bath. Clean clothes. And the bed. It had felt like lying on a cloud. For a little while… he'd had to go to the parlor and sleep on the slightly harder sofa there. Turns out he'd been right and the bed was so soft he couldn't sleep.

He awoke the next morning with renewed purpose: contact someone to help him get Peter. He rummaged through a desk in his room and pulled out a parchment and quill… now, who to trust? There was really only one.

Many hours and many crumpled pieces of parchment later, he stared at his best hope. He said a prayer to any god who would listen that his letter would be believed.

August 28th

Moony,

Please read this with an open mind.

Where to begin? I've no doubt you've heard of my escape. (Front page, above the fold! (Forgive the pathetic attempt at humor; I believe I've lost my touch.)) I know you must think me mad and you probably believe that it was I who gave up James' and Lily's location to Voldemort, but it wasn't. I will take any manner of truth serum you can find, I'll make a Wizard's Oath, anything. I would even turn myself in if promised an actual trial. Well, I would if I trusted them.

The week before James and Lily were killed I talked them into making Peter the Secret Keeper. I thought that I was the obvious choice and therefore Peter wouldn't be given a second look. After all, who would think that twitchy little Peter would be trusted as a Secret Keeper? He betrayed us, Moony. He betrayed them and handed them to Voldemort on a silver platter.

When I left Godric's Hollow after finding James and Lily that night, I did go straight for Peter. I did have every intention of killing him but the little rat pulled one over on me, should've been in Slytherin that one. He shouted about how I had done it, severed one of his fingers, and blew the street up behind him. Then he turned into Wormtail and fled; I watched him dodge every spell I threw as he scarpered. And all they found of him was his finger, because the rest of him was down the sewer. Bloody coward. It's my fault they're dead, but it was my terrible idea, not any betrayal on my part that caused it.

That was twelve years ago, but a few weeks ago I was handed a Daily Prophet that showed Wormtail sitting on the shoulder of one of the Weasley kids, happy as you please. It's him, Moony. That rat was missing a toe and had those stupid little tufts of hair like Peter did. You remember? Never saw another rat with fur like that. And I've seen a lot of rats after so long in prison.

Moon, I can only imagine what's going through your brilliant mind right now, but there is a simple way to test my story. When the youngest Weasley boy gets to Hogwarts, you and Dumbledore get his pet rat and cast the spell on him. (I read you made DADA professor- well done, mate.) If nothing happens, it was a wasted walk to Gryffindor tower and I'll not try to contact you again. If he turns into Peter Pettigrew… an innocent man may get what's left of his life back.

I won't tell you where I am so that you can honestly say you don't know and that you haven't harbored a fugitive or any rot like that, but please, do this for me. Marauder's honor, Moony: I didn't betray Prongs and Peter's alive.

Padfoot

Remus Lupin stared at the letter in his trembling hands for nearly twenty minutes before he could take in its meaning. He staggered backward until he hit the sofa and collapsed with little grace into the cushions, still clutching the missive. The words swam in front of his eyes as he recalled the night he'd lost every one of his best friends in one fell swoop. His heart pounded in his chest and a sweat broke out on his skin… he'd never wanted to believe that Sirius had betrayed them, that he had killed poor Peter so brutally. But they had known there was a traitor in their midst and to be honest, he hadn't thought Peter was clever enough to pull it off.

Could Sirius be telling the truth? It was awfully risky taking the chance of contacting anyone from his past while he was the most wanted man in Britain. And what a silly thing to make up… perhaps Azkaban had robbed him of his sanity? The Weasley boy's rat could be any rat. In all likelihood Sirius was wrong about him. But… if Sirius had killed Peter, he'd wouldn't break out of Azkaban, take the risk of contacting someone who thought him guilty, only to make up some wild story. What good would that do him? If Sirius was guilty, he'd be running as fast and as far as any of his legs, two or four, could take him. Sirius' supposed guilt had never sat well with him. That was why, in the two months since his escape, he hadn't told a soul about his Animagus form. He was the only one left who knew about it and it was Sirius' only hope for survival at this point. He hadn't been able to stomach the thought of taking that away from his former friend.

He read the letter again, nodded to himself and folded the letter. He would talk to Dumbledore. Sirius had a point: if he was wrong about the rat there was no harm done and only a few wasted minutes. If Sirius was right and he did nothing… allowed Peter to go free after all this time… he shook his head. He couldn't do that to Padfoot if he was telling the truth. He tried to stifle the hope building in his chest that Sirius was, in fact, telling the truth. His throat ached at the thought that it was possible his best friend hadn't betrayed them after all and that he'd spent twelve years in hell for a crime he hadn't committed.

At the moment though, he poured himself a short glass of firewhiskey and walked out to his back garden. He stepped barefooted onto the lawn, took a deep breath of the night air and scanned the trees. Would he see eyes shining back at him, wondering about the letter he'd just read? He stood outside for an hour watching, waiting. Finally resigned, he went back in. Where ever Sirius was, he wasn't here.

Sirius, as it happened, was in London. He managed to stay in London for another entire day before he was overwhelmed by the urge to make the journey north. Knowing that Remus had gotten his letter the day before and that all the necessary players might be at Hogwarts tomorrow… it was too much to bear. He packed a few changes of clothes and a hamper of food and Disapparated to a forest just outside of Hogsmead. All he could do now was avoid dementors and pray that Moony believed his letter. He tried to convince himself that he'd waited this long already; a little more time wouldn't kill him.