Hello Padfoot, old friend,

I don't know exactly why I'm writing this, I may not even send it... but there are certain things that have needed to be said for too long now.

Not for the first time in the past 12 years I find I am having difficulty accepting your guilt. I feel terrible for it, as though I'm besmirching James's memory just by thinking it. And yet, I've doubted it since day one. We both know I had my reservations about you taking on the responsibility, and if by some small miracle you are innocent, then I will apologise for it endlessly... When it came to it though, I would have done exactly the same as James. We all would have entrusted our lives to one another, I'm sure you'd agree on that.

But that all just makes it so much harder to comprehend. Why did you do it? After your upbringing, then everything we went through together at school, and afterwards... How could you? I don't understand when it all changed. What happened to you? What could he possibly have offered that was worth more to you than the life of your best friend? I really want to understand, I want to put my mind at ease. They say you've gone mad, and I really half hope that is the case, albeit for selfish reasons. If not then the best years of my life were in some part a complete lie; they have decimated in worth. Then again, if you have lost it, why did I never notice it? We were, after all, frequently in such close contact then. As a friend I should have seen the signs, should I not?

Perhaps they were there and I ignored them, or was too much of a coward to concede to the possibility. I have always been a coward to some extent; you know that, I know that. It's why I haven't been in touch all these years. And I've wanted to, believe me. At times I have wanted to rant and rave at you, at others I've just wanted to know why, as I do now. I don't know if they ever told you but I even arranged to visit you once. About ten years ago now... Got as far as the gates then turned tail and fled. There's that cowardice, again. Too cowardly even to send a letter. This isn't the first time I've sat and started writing, but I've always given up, or backed out of sending it. Fear? Maybe. Perhaps I just didn't actually want to accept the truth. You're clearly not the man I once knew. What's to say I would have received a response? You may not know who I am anymore. I suppose what I was – and am – most afraid of is getting a confession, in your own words... and for the doubt to end once and for all.

So why am I writing all this now? Rather hypocritical you might say... I would not contest that allegation either. Truth is, frankly speaking, I'm a bit of a mess. I am back at the school now, Sirius, with Harry – but then of course you already know about him. You should see him though; chip off the old block is an understatement. What am I saying? Of course you shouldn't see him - I pray that you never do. I know you intend to finish what you started.

Does that include me?

Want rid of the whole gang?

Since your escape I am in a tempestuous state, with all these questions not giving me a moment's peace. Some days too I think I should inform the authorities – or Albus at least – of your furry alter-ego. I daren't do it though, which is fortunate for you. Once more, the cowardice shines through. Playing ignorant is so much easier, safer... For the first time in many years I actually have an existence I value, I have something to lose... and I'm not sure I could bear that. Not after everything. So I'm laying low and wimping out of doing the right thing.

... Instead I'm composing letters to my convict-on-the-run ex-best-friend. Perhaps it isn't you who are the mad one. I certainly think I'm well on my way...

Remus groaned and threw his quill across the desk. It landed on an open book to the right of his letter, splattering the pristine pages with dark blotches of ink. He glared at it with contempt for a second before realising the banality of spilt ink and putting his aching head into his hands. He wondered what he had been thinking when he set out on this venture. Even though he did indeed have ways and means – albeit that they were slightly unlawful ones – of probably getting a letter to Sirius, it remained as stupid an idea now as it was twelve years ago, nine years ago, five years ago... last Spring... He had in fact decided by the second paragraph that he was never going to send it, but there was something so strangely therapeutic about getting his feelings down on paper. It was almost as good as sending it just to write it, just to lay out on a page the tumult that was in his head.

He buried his fingers deep into his unruly hair as he read over the garbled words in front of him. The melodrama of it in places would have made him laugh if not for the seriousness of the circumstances. Strange though it was, having only just composed it, there were certain lines he did not recall writing. Thoughts had spilt out onto the page that he had not realised were on his mind. The suggestion that Sirius may have designs on his head as well as Harry's had never occurred to him, at least not consciously. Likewise the possibility of explaining to Dumbledore that Sirius was an Animagus caused an uncomfortable twisting sensation in his stomach. How could he admit to such immense betrayal after everything Dumbledore had done for him over the years? – Not least of all providing him with a job when nobody else would. It was too difficult for the least courageous Gryffindor to have graced the halls of Hogwarts to contemplate.

The letter obviously could not be sent - too risky, too pointless, too real... but even so it could be retained. It had helped clear his mind a lot that evening and reflected his troubles too perfectly to be thrown away. In truth, Remus did not have the heart to discard it. In some way, although he had accepted long ago that his old friend could not read it, keeping it did serve a similar purpose. He could nearly believe it had been sent if he didn't have to burn it. Therefore, knowing it did not matter, but needing to do it, he picked up the quill once more. Dipping it quickly in the ink well, he added a couple of rushed lines to the bottom of the parchment.

Truth is Sirius; I want you to be in the clear. I miss you. I want us to be friends once more, to regain a scrap of what made my life valuable. Every day that I read the news, it terrifies me, but excites me in equal measure. Despite it all, I believe in you Padfoot. Please, someday, let the faith of a stubborn, ignorant, naive werewolf be repaid.

Ok all, quite a short chapter here... (part one of two in a similar vein) and quite a departure from what I've done so far. For that reason I'd love to know what you think of this chapter in particular. Does this format thrown in randomly work? Do you think it's something Lupin might do? Way out of character? Also, just what do you think of the content? I just started writing and it flowed really naturally, for some reason. A bit like as I said for Lupin himself. So any insight, comments, criticism etc is widely welcomed! Hope you enjoyed it