Chapter Nine: Promises Remembered

The End of the First Year: November 12, 1982

"I wish Remus and Peter could be here," James said quietly.

Lily wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. Harry was sound asleep, still, safe in his bed—her charms would have warned her if he'd woken, even a little—while she and James stood on the hillside, watching the sun rise. November had been unseasonably warm, and the sky was crystal clear shades of blues and yellows, but she still shivered.

James was close to breaking down, and she wished he just would. It had been a year—but twenty years would still not be long enough. He didn't have to be strong for her, but this was James; he would always try.

"Me, too," she whispered, looking at the monument.

It was on the highest hill at Godric's Hollow, something she knew Sirius would have liked. He'd always loved heights, whether on brooms, flying motorbikes, or high towers at Hogwarts, Sirius had been at home in the sky. Perhaps he's there now, Lily told herself. I hope he's at peace.

A pillar made of black marble and topped with a six-pointed gold star, its presence said the words neither she nor James could manage to speak through the pain.

Sirius Black

1960-1981

Faithful until the end.

Gone, but never forgotten.

Sirius had never been her best friend—Lily had hated him longer than she'd hated James, after all—but she'd grown to love him like a brother. And now she owed him her son's life, and her husband's, and that was a debt she would never forget.

Someday, somehow, she was going to find a worthy way to honor that memory.

"Do you think…" James started hesitantly, making Lily turn to face him.

"Think?" she prompted gently.

"I mean, maybe…there's been no body, and Voldemort never said anything…"

Lily swallowed hard, squeezed her husband tight. "I wish…but no, I don't think. While it's remotely possible…I think Voldemort would have tried to use him to draw you out by now, if Sirius was alive."

There. She'd said his name without her voice breaking. That had to mean something.

But James could not do the same, and she held him as he cried.

"One year down," Voldemort said quietly as Sirius hit the floor; the words seemed to come at a distance. "Do you believe your friends are thinking of you today, or have they moved on?"

He wouldn't dignify that with an answer; he'd just lie there and bleed.

Young Crouch had a flair for physical torture that his master did not share; though Voldemort rarely liked to get his own hands dirty, he was more than happy to let others do so. Crouch was one of his favorites—Sirius devotedly wished he'd known that when he was busy working for the bastard's father as an Auror—and he was one of the few Death Eaters Sirius was constantly exposed to at Casa Serpente.

Too bad some Auror hasn't gotten him yet. He's one jerk I'd be happy to never see again. Where is Alastor when I need him? He'd hex this bastard to kingdom come.

"Answer him, worm!" Crouch snarled, and the whip fell again.

Sirius cried out, but did not answer.

Everything hurt, and he'd ignore them for as long as he could.

Peter woke up in a cold sweat, still shaking. Fumbling for his wand, it took him three tries to even make the spell work.

"Lumos, damn you," he hissed at the offending piece of wood, and light finally filled his bedroom.

He let out a shuddering breath and squinted against the sudden brightness; why was it he never remembered how bright this charm was?

"You betrayed me!" the voice echoed in his ears. "You betrayed us all when I died for our—"

"It's only a nightmare," Peter gasped. "Only a nightmare, Wormtail. Stop thinking about it."

Why was he still shaking?

"I would have died for you," the nightmare voice continued in his mind. "And you didn't even try!"

"I've never been strong…"

Peter shook himself. Stopped the words with an effort. He would not argue with the nightmares his consciousness decided to drag up—he wasn't crazy; he was frightened. He was in too deep and he knew it, but he had no choice but to continue on and keep the faith as best he could with the friends he had left.

I'm sorry, Sirius. So sorry. I just can't—

"Stop it!" He jumped as the light went out. "What the—?"

His palms had grown so sweaty that he'd dropped his wand, and it took several long moments of searching in the dark before he could find it again. He'd never been good at Summoning Charms, after all, and there was no way he could manage to do one without the wand he needed.

"Lumos," he repeated in what almost came out as a level incantation. At least he managed it on the first try, anyway.

He was glad he was in France. Although he'd originally been reluctant to leave his friends behind, the promotion had been too good to pass up, as both Remus and James had told him. But the truth was that he was glad for the distance—sometimes, every now and then, it made the guilt easier to bear.

Even after Sirius had been caught, he'd never seen his friend. Peter's role as a Death Eater was minimal; he was mostly a spy, and he rarely saw the Dark Lord. Had Malfoy suspected that seeing Sirius would make Peter do something foolish? He'd never asked because he had never wanted to know, but now Peter wondered.

A year too late, he wondered.

A year later, he still dreamed of a tortured or dead Sirius, demanding to know how Wormtail could have betrayed his brothers that way.

The 656th Day: September 1, 1983

He had never thought this day would come.

Barely back from the disastrous failure that meeting with his fellow werewolves had been, Remus had expected Dumbledore's disappointment to weigh upon him heavily. Although he'd acquitted himself well in the fight that had broken out, rescuing four children with minimal help from the Order, whose members had arrived a good bit too late to actually accomplish anything, Remus had anticipated fading back into the shadows, quietly resuming his job search and ending his participation in the Order's greater matters. He hadn't expected this.

"And finally, let us welcome our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Remus Lupin," Dumbledore finished, and there were suddenly hundreds of eyes on Remus as students applauded.

Swallowing, he levered himself to his feet and waved a thanks for the welcome, wondering if he should say anything—Did my professors ever say anything when they were new? He could not remember, and decided to sit back down before he put his foot in his mouth.

Professor McGonagall's reassuring smile did nothing to make his heart beat slower; Dumbledore had offered him the job just two days before the start of the term and Remus was still wondering if he had dreamed it all up. He even pinched himself (again), but there he still was, sitting between Quirrel and Snape, getting dirty looks from both professors who had hoped to gain the job Remus currently occupied. Neither seemed willing to talk to Remus, but the snubs hardly bothered him. He mind was too busy whirling to hold up his end of any conversation.

The rest of dinner swept by in a blur; by the time the students left the Great Hall, Remus had mostly managed to convince himself that he was not dreaming. Slowly, he levered himself out of his chair, looking around in wonder.

I thought this place was beautiful when I was a student here. But I never thought I'd be so lucky that I got to come back.

His parents would have been so proud—

"Taking a bite out of dinner, Lupin?" a snide voice asked from his left.

Remus sighed. Of all the students in my class, why did Dumbledore have to let him teach here? He can't be good with the students. With an effort, he kept his voice level, turning to face his fellow professor. "Good evening, Severus."

"There's hardly anything good about it with you here," Snape sneered.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you."

The other wizard's lip curled with disgust. "The only disappointment, Lupin, is that you didn't decide to stay with Greyback and your other fellows out in the Liverpool fens. Although I understand that you didn't exactly make a good first impression."

"I didn't exactly fit in," Remus replied dryly, trying to ignore the way Snape's eyes traced over his left side, with his sharp gaze ending pointedly on Remus' ribcage—right where fresh bandages were hidden by the bulk of his robes. How does he know?

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?"

It took all of Remus' self control not to snap back; he was hurting, he was tired, and today was supposed to be a good day. "At least," he said slowly, "I am comfortable with who and what I am, which is more than I can say for you."

Dark eyes bored into his. "You know nothing about what I do, Lupin."

"I know you're a Death Eater," Remus replied easily, not having expected that vehement of a reply. "And judging from the sound of your response, not a very happy one."

I always thought he'd fit right in with the lot of them. He hardly ever talked about anything else during our seventh year except how we'd 'get what we deserved' when he had power and we did not. Remus frowned, looking at how tight Snape's pale face had become. And he certainly seemed to enjoy attacking me. Strange.

"No, I never had friends like yours," the other shot back. "Still, it must be lonely—Black dead, Potter hiding, and Pettigrew running his cowardly self every which way—how do you manage on the full moons, Lupin? Do you cry yourself through every transformation?"

That hit a bit too close for the truth; although Peter tried to be there for every full moon, Remus had found himself alone far too many times over the last year and a half. Something snapped.

"Just be grateful I spend those nights alone, Severus," he snarled.

"I'll only be grateful when you're put down like the animal you are," the other retorted, but Snape's suddenly frightened expression told Remus that the blow had struck true; neither would ever forget the night Severus Snape might have joined Remus in his misery.

"I am not an animal," Remus replied tightly, but strangely enough, those words felt true…for the first time in his life. He might not have believed himself before he'd seen the ramshackle werewolf society hiding out in the fens south of Liverpool—a place he would have ended up in if not for Dumbledore.

Remus had heard stories of Greyback and his followers, tales of the brutal lives they led and of the children stolen and bitten, but he had never believed them. He had always wanted to think of other werewolves as better than that. He wasn't so different, after all; he'd merely been fortunate in the chances he'd been given. He had always told himself that werewolves were still human…except they didn't act like it. Most of them were the animals Snape believed they were—not because they had to be, but because they chose to be.

Even his own first transformation had not frightened him as much as those werewolves had.

"No, you're simply Dumbledore's pet. What will you do when he tires of you?" Snape interrupted his thoughts.

"What will you do when he discovers that he can't save you from yourself?" Remus shot back.

"I," the Potions Master replied coldly, drawing himself up, "do not need saving."

Somehow, the hard-wrought pride in Snape's posture only made Remus feel sad.

"We all need saving," he said quietly.

Snape's only answer was a snort as he stalked away.

He'd been amused in the beginning, and then curious. After all, not every day did someone dare defy him—and no one dared to do so for long. But this was a bit much.

Nearly two years had passed since his loyal followers had brought Black in. Six hundred and fifty-six days had passed since he had greeted the blood traitor at Casa Serpente, and yet the boy still resisted. Curiosity was bleeding into anger. He had been civilized about this thus far, but the prophecy hung over his head like a death shroud. He would tolerate it no longer. The Potters' defiance—and Black's, in protecting them—could not be allowed to continue.

I'd be more patient if not for Dumbledore making the most out of his sacrifice. The fool still thinks he can beat me. What does he think he is doing on the WWN, save for antagonizing me?

Five days, five attacks. Had his opponent been anyone other than Albus Dumbledore, he would have assumed that the other wizard had learned his lesson. But no, not Dumbledore. The old headmaster would never admit defeat—he'd said as much during that infernal WWN broadcast, in which he pointed to Black as a martyr for defying the Dark Lord and saving his friends. Old fool. He thinks he knows me so well. The speech had been unwise, which was not something he could usually accuse his old teacher of being. He'd all but thrown the gauntlet down.

The thought brought a smile to Voldemort's face, and his fingers drummed lightly against the wall in anticipation.

Won't he be surprised when he wakes one morning to find the Potters dead, betrayed by that very same 'martyr' whose heroics he made so much of?

Black's resistance was impressive, but enough was enough. Stepping forward, he waved Barty aside. The lad was a talented torturer—he had learned well from Bella—but his attempts to weasel answers out of Black always came to naught.

"I have run out of patience with you, Sirius," he said to the bound figure, gratified to see the slight flinch from the sound of his voice. Oh, the defiance had not lessened, but Black had grown truly afraid over the last six hundred days.

That was an improvement, even if he was far from pleased with the situation.

"This…is you being patient, then?" the Auror quipped.

"Crucio."

The screams were too quiet to be satisfying at all, and he flicked his wand aside after about a minute, and then waited patiently for Black to regain coherency. It was taking longer and longer these days.

Barty pressed forward. "Master, may I—"

"No. He will be punished for his impertinence soon enough."

Blue eyes blinked open. Black was not incoherent yet, and Voldemort had been extremely careful to keep him sane, no matter how much pain he had put him in. That was the reason he indulged Barty's fascination with more physical torture methods—and had done research of his own on the topic. The Cruciatus Curse was an excellent tool, but it did have its drawbacks, and an insane prisoner would be of no use to him.

"Thanks for proving my point," Black whispered hoarsely.

Voldemort chuckled, and watched the defiance crumble under fear, just for a moment. "It's hard being strong, isn't it?" he asked quietly. "Hard holding to friends who no longer care about you?"

Predictably, the defiance blossomed back to full strength at the mention of his friends.

"Not hard enough," the other coughed.

"Point taken."

I'm going to have to make him fear me enough that his loyalty becomes a secondary consideration. He is not there yet—their memory still lends him strength, even when he wants to break.

Curious, he raised his wand, watching Black flinch. Smiling, he crouched next to the bleeding figure, making a mental note to have Barty remove and replace the barbed wire on Black's arms. The Auror had lost weight, and it would not do for him to escape because he could pull his arms free of their bindings. "But you are frightened."

He was surprised when Sirius met his eyes.

"So?"

"You are frightened, and yet you have not seen the worst I have to offer," he replied with a smile, brushing blood away from the other's forehead. Sirius tried to jerk away, weakly, but Voldemort pressed his hand down harder, and all humor left his voice. "I have been kinder to you than you deserve, but that stops now. You will break, Sirius. Everyone does."

"Haven't yet, have I?"

"I wouldn't be so proud of that, were I in your position. I would be worried."

"Hiya, Moony."

The voice made him jump; Remus was still not accustomed to the Hogwarts quarters he'd moved into mere hours before the feast, and he certainly wasn't expecting to see his two best friends lounging on his bed with their feet up on his blankets. But that was James who had spoken, James who Remus had only seen once in the last year and a half—and that was Peter sprawled next to him, grinning up a storm.

"What are you doing here?" he asked stupidly.

"Talking to you, of course," Wormtail replied.

"But—you're—you aren't supposed to be here! You're supposed to be in hiding!" Remus pointed an accusing finger James' way, then swung to glare at Peter. "And you're encouraging him."

"Always," Peter grinned. "He doesn't take much encouragement, you know."

"I know that! But—"

"Relax, Remus." James hopped off the bed and came to meet him. "I was here to talk to Dumbledore—I do that every now and then—and Peter and I decided to surprise you. Figured we owed you congratulations, even if you hadn't found the time to tell us about your new job."

"I barely knew about it myself," Remus replied weakly, accepting the back-slapping hug James offered. If they hung on for perhaps a moment too long, who was there to notice? Peter understood.

"So we heard." James drew back, still smiling. "But who would have thought it? One of the Marauders is teaching at Hogwarts! The mere thought is going to drive McGonagall insane."

Remus shook his head to clear it, still fumbling his way through his surprise. "She's been very nice so far."

"Ha! Like that'll last," Peter predicted. "Just leave some cat nip in her desk and wait until she transforms. That'll do the trick."

Trying hard not to laugh—he was a professor, after all—Remus reached out to shove the shorter man. "I'm not trying to do the trick, worm-brain. I'm her colleague now."

"Colleague, smalleague," was the immediate response.

"Though we did know it was coming," James piled on. "We did used to call you Professor Moony, after all."

"Which you thoroughly deserved," Peter added.

"Which is our way of saying congratulations," James finished. "Really. It's great to see you here—I can't wait for you to teach Harry."

Remus blinked. "That's a long time in the future, Prongs."

"So? You want to quit already?"

"Well, no. Of course not. But with people like Snape teaching here…" he took a deep breath. "I'm just not going to count my chickens before they've hatched. I'll take each day as it comes."

"Don't let ol' Snivelly get you down, Moony. I'm sure you're going to be a better teacher than he is."

"Not like that's exactly hard," Peter put in. "Does he still grease his hair back because he thinks it makes him look older?"

Remus finally let himself laugh. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, he does."

Tension he had not known was in the room suddenly seemed to disappear, and they were the Marauders again. It's been too long, Remus thought to himself, feeling honestly happy for the first time in months.

"Forget Snivellus, Moony," James said with a grin. "We've got far more important matters to deal with."

"Oh? Like what?"

He brandished the bottle of Firewhiskey with a flourish. "This."

"Bring the brank, Barty," he heard the dispassionate voice command. With an effort, Sirius managed to turn his head to track the Death Eater's movements, though he was barely able to see Crouch from his new position.

They'd pulled him off the floor and strapped him down to a table, yanking his arms out from behind his back—Sirius had not known that could hurt so badly—and chaining them down at his sides. Someone had half-healed his broken left arm at some point, and it had seemed to be doing a valiant job of finishing the process itself, but now he was certain that the fracture had re-broken. He'd also forgotten about the cracked ribs until Crouch had forced him flat on his back, and Sirius felt like he was breathing in fire instead of oxygen.

That was Voldemort looking down at him. The sight made Sirius shiver, no matter how hard he tried not to.

"Thanks in large part to your resistance, I have done a bit of historical research," the Dark Lord told him. "I find myself inexplicably intrigued by the methods that medieval Muggles once used against wizards. And since I have no wish to grant you the escape of insanity, I will have to resort to more…brutal techniques."

Sirius stared incredulously. "You don't call this brutal?" he managed to ask in what he hoped was a light tone. "You need to…get out more, mate."

Long sentences were hard to speak, especially like this.

"I will miss your witty conversation, of course," Voldemort continued, and fear welled up in Sirius' throat. There was no way to miss the warning tone in the deceptively soft voice.

What is he going to do? For once, he could not come up with a witty comment. He could only stare.

Crouch reached his side, daggling a contraption in front of Sirius' face. His blurry vision caught sight of leather and metal, but Voldemort's hand grasped his chin and forced his head away before he could figure out the rest.

"Medieval Muggles called this the brank. Ironically enough, they used it to keep witches and wizards from saying spells—and they used it very effectively, as speaking a word, or making any sound, causes intense pain. As you will soon find out." The Dark Lord smiled, and Sirius shivered again.

His eyes drifted back to look at the object, and this time Voldemort did not stop him. The majority of the object seemed to be made of leather; there were two straps that could be connected by a buckle, but were not yet. Joining the two straps, however, was a metal rod only a few inches long that seemed somewhat bumpy—realization hit. This is going to be really, really bad. Sirius swallowed hard. Those bumps were spikes, and another metal strip extended perpendicular from the center of the rod. This one was vaguely rectangular, and maybe two or three inches wide by three inches long. It, too, was spiked.

Sirius was a pretty bright man, even with his mind bogged down with pain. And he'd always had an active imagination, so it took no effort at all to figure out how badly the brank was going to hurt.

He had to force himself to take a deep breath, and fight back the cough the tightness in his chest wanted to cause.

Laugh or cry, he told himself sternly.

"You're resorting to…Muggle torture devices?" he managed to ask after a moment. "You must be desperate."

"I am vexed," the Dark Lord replied quietly. Dangerously.

Sirius shivered again.

"You may proceed, Barty."

Crouch leaned over him, and Sirius tried to pull away, jerking his head left and then right. He was trying to annoy the Death Eater as much as he was trying to get away, but if vexing them was the only way he could fight back, Sirius would take what he could get.

"Petrificus Totalus," Crouch snarled angrily, and Sirius' body froze.

For a moment, he dared to hope that the full body bind would take the pain away, but Sirius quickly realized that was not the case. Everything still hurt—but he couldn't move. He couldn't fight. He could only watch with wide eyes as the brank got closer and closer, and then Crouch flicked his wand and Sirius' jaws wrenched wide open.

He grunted in protest, but they both ignored him.

Then the brank went in—cold metal was on his tongue, brushing past his teeth. He'd bitten his tongue enough times that any contact was painful, and suddenly those were spikes pressing down—Sirius screamed.

Making noise meant moving his tongue. Moving his tongue only made the pain worse. Once started, he couldn't stop screaming, and he was barely aware of hands lifting his head and the leather strap buckling around the back of his skull, and then the strap tightened.

Sirius wailed in pain. He would have been thrashing if the chains would have let him; he knew his head was jerking back and forth in pain—when had the full body bind been removed?—but he could not stop it. Every scream only made the pain worse; he felt like his mouth was being torn to shreds. Blood dripped into the back of his throat at an alarming rate, making him cough and choke, but no matter how hard he tried, Sirius could not stop screaming.

Author's Note: Please do mind the jumps in time in this chapter; they'll continue as the story moves on. That said, please do let me know what you think, and stay around for Chapter 10: "The Shape of Things to Come", in which Voldemort's impatience grows, Snape and Remus have…issues, and Dumbledore drops a bombshell.

In another note, if you're a Doctor Who fan, please check out my new saga of the Time War, "War By the Numbers".