Chapter Four: Seen better days

Nestled deep in the outskirts between Hogsmeade and Dovetown was The Ten-Foot Troll. The Ten-Foot Troll was a pub far, far worse than The Hog's Head, but it was the only place Sirius thought he might not be recognised. Between the thieves, the fiends and the outcasts no one would look twice at a dead Azkaban deserter. It was where the lowest rungs of Wizarding society loitered, and apparently, Sirius now fell into that category. The air in the dingy hovel was thick with smoke and soot, and the sounds of glasses clinking on wooden table tops mingled with the drawing of chairs and the choked coughs of miserable souls intent on drinking away their troubles. A dull amber glow from the scarce candles suffocated the room, barely reaching the corners. Men gathered in the shrouded dark to discuss dishonest plans.

He'd spent the majority of his time since falling through the veil here. The last thing he remembered, before running off to the Ministry, falling through the veil and getting himself stuck in the future, was Grimmauld Place. It had been an evening like every other. He and Moony had sat around the familiar wooden kitchen table, laughing at old jokes and reminiscing about old times. They were joined throughout the evening by the rest of the order, and they'd join in with the jokes and the tales. They were not making new memories, rather relishing in the old ones. There had been so many evenings like it, yet Sirius had treasured every one. Not because he had a sense of foreboding that there wouldn't be many or it wouldn't last, but because he had known the desperate despair of loneliness and the aching hope that the sun would stop rising. To know that tomorrow would come and to be glad when it did, and to know that his friends were as happy to see him as he was them, had made Sirius thankful, for the first time in a long time, that he was still alive.

How strange that for Sirius it was still so fresh in his mind since it had happened such a short time before, yet for everyone else it would be a long forgotten memory from sixteen years ago.

He wondered if it was still the same. Did they still sit around the table? Did they still laugh at the same old jokes? Did they speak of Sirius like they had the rest of the Order? Did they point at him in the picture and remember him then? 'Original order of the Phoenix. The man with the dark hair stood at the back, that's Sirius Black. He's copped it, dozy sod fell backwards through a curtain and disappeared.' Perhaps they'd take a minute in silence to remember that night, then they'd continue on to the next person. A face in a photo with a miserable end.

Now, Sirius sat alone at a battered table in a rundown pub, furthest away from the door and staring into the empty abyss of his Firewhisky glass. He could hear low, grumbled voices float through the air, and caught stray, throwaway lines from the different conversations.

"…100 hooky cauldrons made from plastic…"

"…Gregori was almost noticed, but he used a disfigurement charm…"

"…no-one ever guards the back entrance, it would be easy to charm the lock…"

"Goyle needs to be more careful. He'll be sent back if he's caught…"

"…Greyback's coming out soon, he's done his time in Azkaban..." This caught his attention. Both the mention of his former home and the only name he'd recognised all evening, and it automatically reminded him of Moony.

He thought of his friends. His remaining friends, at least. He hadn't been told anything except what Hermione had let slip at their first meeting. His only friends were house-elves now, and they didn't know who the old Order of the Phoenix were, let alone what had happened to them. Hermione stopped by occasionally, and McGonagall would take time out of her busy preparations for the new school year to check on Sirius, but any time he tried asking, the subject would always be changed, until he learned to just stop asking.

So he imagined what he'd missed. Moony would be an old man by now. Even older than usual. His age would have finally caught up with his personality. Merlin, Sirius should be pushing fifty! Tonks, his little cousin Tonks, he'd missed another huge chunk of her life. What would be left of Mad-Eye? There had hardly been anything of him left to curse off! Kingsley, he knew from glancing at the Daily Prophet one morning, was now the Minister for Magic, and Sirius hoped more than anything that it meant the Ministry was no longer so corrupted. If Hermione worked there, it mustn't be so bad.

Then, of course, there was the Weasleys. Molly would probably be just the same, perhaps more overbearing, and poor old Arthur would be just as put-upon. There'd most likely be a whole new batch of younger Weasleys'. He wondered if Bill and Fleur had got together- he knew that Bill had been keen on that idea. In fact, Sirius had given him a few tips.

He didn't expect Dumbledore to still be here. Sirius was sure that Hermione would have asked his help rather than McGonagall. But then again, perhaps he'd had enough of teaching and decided to retire gracefully in a handsome cottage in a cosy hillside. That didn't really seem like something Dumbledore would do, somehow.

And then, what about Harry? Hermione had said that he was married, with three children of his own! The boy's done alright. It was probably a good job that Sirius hadn't been around, who knows what he might have got into with Sirius's influence.

But was there much point in wondering what they were doing now? Sirius didn't know when, or if, he would get to see any of them again. He'd asked more than once why he couldn't see Harry, and the answer was always a variation of the same theme. They didn't know how he would react. What would Harry think? Harry had been through far worse than anyone could imagine and was older and wiser than they knew. Hermione's concern was that Harry would worry that other people could come back, too. If Sirius could reappear one morning when everyone had thought he was dead- was it so impossible Harry's parents couldn't do the same? What about Voldemort?

Sirius's friends had kept him going after Azkaban, and shone through his dark depression like stars in the night sky. He was named for a star, he'd lived in the depths of the heavens, and now he would have to learn to look at an empty sky. It was this melancholy hopelessness, the despair, and the loneliness that had driven him to The Ten-Foot Troll.

He'd been told to spend his advance on his first Hogwarts paycheque on 'required equipment'. McGonagall had recommended text books, a set of scholar's robes, quills, parchment and teaching aids. Sirius had chosen firewhisky and mead. It was his solace. It was the only thing that made sense and if he drank enough it kept the demons at bay.

One more wouldn't hurt. One more before the journey home. One more for Prongs. One more so he wouldn't feel lonely. He used every excuse he could think of, but he couldn't change the reality. One more wouldn't help anything.

At times he would apparate from outside the Hogwarts gates into a completely unknown town in the middle of nowhere. Almost always, they were muggle towns, with a mere handful of little brick houses surrounded with battered wooden fences, bird tables and squat bushes. There were no paths or roads, just dirt tracks that led from one lonely village to another, and because he had nothing else to do, he would transform into his animagus form and run as fast as he could. He'd thought about running from village to village, from town to city, and from one country to another. He could run as fast and as far as he could, and live in cliff sides or caves or beneath great trees. He had done it before, and he thought about doing it again. But really, was Hogwarts so bad that he would be willing to trade it all for scavenged food and the damp undergrowth?

There was no need to be in his animagus form in the muggle towns. There was no one, really, who would recognise him, and muggles certainly wouldn't be looking for him. But it was like a disguise, he was hidden in plain sight, and he didn't have to worry about what might be waiting for him around the next bend. In his animagus form he felt like he had been freed from imaginary shackles he was always forced to wear.

He could have gone to live in the Muggle world, turned his back on wizardfolk and lived his new future without the worry of being recognised, but he had spent his whole life surrounded by magic, and every floating object, every pointed hat and every impossible thing was his home.

So he preferred the Ten-Foot Troll, despite its questionable clientele. He preferred being surrounded by magic and wonder. Strangers would come and go, yet still Sirius would sit alone at the table furthest from the door. He was generally avoided by the bar's other patrons. Not because they recognised him, but because even they knew that a man drinking alone did not want to be disturbed.

One evening, when the tepid afternoon sun had set without Sirius's notice, a cloaked stranger turned stiffly in his chair to look at Sirius staring into the golden depths of his firewhisky. Dark cloaks, heavy disguises or shrouded hoods were not unusual in the Ten-Foot Troll- not many of the pub's regulars wanted to be recognised.

"What's wrong with you? You look like you've got a date with the Dark Lord." The figure grunted.

Sirius smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. I'm alone in a future I don't understand, I can't see my friends, I don't have a home anymore, he thought. "I'm about to become a teacher." He said instead.

The stranger at the next table laughed, a gravelly, unfamiliar sound, as if it was the first time he had laughed in a while and he had almost forgotten how to do it properly. "A fate worse than Azkaban." He joked.

"I should know." Sirius retorted, taking another swig of his drink.

Sirius could feel the stranger's eyes watching him, but he didn't turn to look. "The ones that go in don't usually come out." The stranger spoke slowly, a challenging tone to his voice. "Perhaps they should all stick together." Sirius didn't reply.

The dirge of chatter that had died when Sirius had spoken seemed to relight as the strangers nearby who had been eavesdropping began to whisper about him, the strange, miserable man by himself, the one who says he's been to Azkaban and lived to tell the tale. No one ever made an effort to speak to Sirius again.

Not long ago, he hadn't been able to leave his house for all the people who were hunting him. Now he was the Wizarding World's most unwanted.

Fun fact: there's a quote in here that's modified from one in Prisoner of Azkaban (p.298-ish) "Wormtail had reappeared this evening when everyone had thought he was dead- was it so impossible his father had done the same?". Which is sort-of why I imagine Harry might think the same if Sirius reappeared... perhaps coming back from the dead is just a Marauders thing in which case I'm all for the other two returning as well (but that's for another story)!

P.S. sorry about how miserable this is, the next chapter is much, much more cheerful I promise! (there's a marauders flashback yaay)