Chapter One
Azkaban, February 1983
Sirius Orion Black had been staring at the same patch of grey, grimy stone for seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years. If he was honest with himself, he was entirely unsure of how long it had actually been since they'd hauled him, kicking and flailing wildly, from the smoking rubble that was all that remained of Tottenham Court Road as he'd screamed himself hoarse, screamed until his throat burned from overuse, screamed until he exhausted his vocal chords altogether and even then he continued to scream, though the sound died on his lips. He had begged and bargained and pleaded all the damned way to bloody Azkaban; he'd begged them to listen to him, pleaded for Remus, for his Moony, not to let them take him, please, no, not there, not there, Moony please, no, no, no, no, please, please, no…
He'd lost track of the days long ago; what was the point in even keeping track when one was facing a life sentence in Azkaban? Instead, he stared at the same patch of grey, grimy stone wall so as to avoid his own disgusting appearance, to block out the tormented screams of his neighboring inmates, the bone-chill of the cell, the rags he was forced to wear, the slop he was forced to eat. In his first imprisoned days, he had attempted a hunger strike, preferring death by slow starvation over another minute spent in godforsaken Azkaban. This had won him a few days' stay in the infirmary with a feeding tube magicked up his nose that had made him gag near-constantly.
As he stared at his chosen patch of filthy stone, Sirius frowned: he wondered, impassively, why the dementors hadn't reduced him to a total nutter yet. How long has it been since I've been arrested? His grimy fingers, the nails long overgrown and blackened with filth, raked roughly at his hair. Judging by the length of his hopelessly tangled, matted locks—which now extended well past his shoulders and hung at the level of his nipples—it had to have been well over a year.
Sirius wondered, briefly, how they were getting on—everyone that wasn't dead, anyway, he corrected himself bitterly. He let out a shaky sigh, screwing his eyes shut as he ran a rough, calloused, filthy hand through his scraggly overgrown beard. For a moment—and only a moment—he allowed himself to think of Remus. It was nearly unbearable to turn his thoughts toward Moony in this bloody hellhole of a prison. With the presence of the dementors he could not decide whether indulging these sorts of thoughts was more or less painful than the Cruciatus Curse—but he could not; no, he would not allow himself to forget his Moony's face. He had to keep those memories fresh, albeit carefully filed away and protected in the far-distant corners of his mind at most times.
He allowed himself to think of his Moony now, his heart beating wildly in his chest as he pictured Remus's amber eyes aflame; his wild, tawny curls that were always falling into his eyes; the intricate pathways the silvery scars upon his torso and limbs took as they snaked across his soft, warm skin; his smell—always with the distinct notes of chocolate and citrus and books and, occasionally, cigarette smoke; the way his lips felt against Sirius's own skin…
What was Moony doing now? Was he even alive? Was he alone? Was he eating enough? Was Harry with him? How was he handling his transformations without the Marauders to keep him safe?
The Marauders. Sirius's eyes snapped open at the realization that he was about to cross a line with his thoughts that was ill-advised in current circumstances, surrounded by dementors who'd be all too hungry and eager to push him to revel and drown in the pain if they so much as sensed it so close to the surface in his mind.
"I'm the only other Marauder left," he whispered to the grimy stone wall, his voice cracking from lack of use. "Prongs…oh, James…" Sirius pressed his palms to his eyes and forced the wetness of tears back. Already he could feel the chasm in his fractured mind widening, the agony trembling and swelling in his chest, in his head. No, it would not do to think of Prongs, not here, not now…desperately, he forced that name, the memories, the stabbing white-hot pain, back to the far corners of his mind.
It wasn't technically true, of course; he wasn't, in fact, the only Marauder remaining alive aside from Moony. There was Wormtail. Pettigrew, the fucking bastard! I'll kill him, I'll rip out his goddamn throat and gut that fucking coward if it's the last thing I do…
Yes—yes, anger was better. Fury was better. Rage was sustenance in here, Sirius had discovered. It was an emotion overflowing with passion but comprised in such a manner that Sirius suspected must be confusing for, or even, incompatible with, the dementors. Rage he could latch onto, buoy himself upon, let it carry him hour to hour, day after day after goddamn day—
The approaching light of an ignited wand tip pulled Sirius abruptly from his thoughts. He tore his gaze from his chosen patch of stone wall and peered through the bars of the cell, squinting both through the pressing darkness and in response to the brightness of the wandlight slicing through the heavy thickness of it.
"Mr. Black," a familiar voice, smooth and baritone, demanded from the other side of the bars. "On your feet."
Sirius stood as quickly as he could, using his palms to push himself clumsily up the wall and into a standing position, his bones and muscles creaking and stretching in protest from disuse as he went. His head involuntarily cocked to the side and his jaw dropped as the wizard before him unlocked and opened the door to his cell.
"Have they finally found the traitorous rat, then?" Sirius rasped incredulously, not daring to allow the relief and happiness flood him until they were outside Azkaban's filthy walls and his greatest hope was confirmed.
Kingsley Shacklebolt did not grace him with a reply, nor did he look him in the eye as he fastened shackles to Sirius's wrists and ankles.
"Follow me," Kingsley muttered coolly, beckoning him forward. "With haste, if you will, Black."
Sirius obeyed wordlessly, his bare feet padding along the rough, cold stone of the corridor as he trudged on Kingsley's heels, thousands of questions overwhelming his mind and dying upon his lips as they went.
After what felt like hours and an unfathomable number of twists and turns, the corridor began to slant upwards and the tiniest square of light appeared in the near distance. They reached the end of the corridor and Kingsley shouldered the heavy, battered door, holding it open for Sirius with one hand as he impatiently beckoned him forward and through it with the other. Sirius was hit with a blast of icy air so frigid that it seemed as if dozens of knives were grating and grinding within his chest; he doubled over, choking and spluttering violently, eyes streaming and throat burning. Kingsley ignored him, already fiddling with the small rowboat perched haphazardly on the jagged, rocky shoreline surrounding the prison.
"Get in," Kingsley ordered as he settled himself in the boat and reached for the oars. Sirius silently obeyed, clumsily, still restrained by the chains encircling his wrists and ankles.
Kingsley began to row with haste, occasionally emitting a grunt of surprise when a particularly unsettling wave would send them hurtling this way or that, away from their intended course. By the time acknowledged Sirius once more, the two wizards could already make out the distant shoreline for which they were heading.
"There has been an attack," Kingsley shouted over the roaring of the wind and the crashing of the waves, still avoiding Sirius's gaze and appearing to choose his words very slowly and carefully.
Sirius's jaw unhinged and fell open once more, eyes widening, again with thousands of questions dying on his lips. He waited through the excruciatingly long silence that followed, internally begging Kingsley to get on with his carefully worded explanation.
An attack. Had Harry been hurt? Had Moony been hurt? Had someone been killed?
"Remus has been gravely injured. You may or may not be aware that when a prisoner's child, parent, or—in this case, partner—is expected to…" Kingsley trailed off as the rowboat met the shore with a sudden, grinding jolt. "…to perish, a brief visitation is permitted," he finished, gracefully leaping from the boat, his heavy boots hitting the pebbled beach with a loud crunch.
"Come now," Kingsley urged, hooking a rough hand around his elbow and unceremoniously dragging a shellshocked, frozen Sirius Black from the boat. "Madam Pomfrey has requested your audience, as Remus has no surviving family."
"Poppy?" Sirius croaked, finally finding his voice for the first time since leaving behind the filthy, grimy walls of Azkaban. "If he's that seriously injured, why isn't he at St. Mungo's? Why would—"
Sirius snapped his mouth shut abruptly as Kingsley held up a large, calloused hand to silence him. "St. Mungo's has declined his admission to their facility given the current—er—circumstances,"
The contempt and clipped anger in Kingsley's tone was barely perceptible but it was not lost on Sirius.
"Because he's a werewolf," Sirius had originally intended it to be a question, but halfway through speaking the thought out loud, he realized he was already closing in upon the answer. In past years and on numerous occasions, Remus had sustained post-transformation injuries severe enough to earn him a stay at St. Mungo's. Although these experiences were always unpleasant and marred by the negative stigma attached to lycanthropy, never once had he been turned away or refused care. There was only one reason Sirius could think of that would bar admittance of Remus Lupin to the wizarding hospital.
The heavy stone that seemed to have been lodged in his throat since the phrase 'to perish' had been uttered slowly, dreadfully, snaked down into his bowels and despair settled there to brew and fester.
"Kings," he muttered shakily, attempting to run a hand through his matted, tangled hair—instead, the wretched claws that were his overgrown, filthy fingernails caught themselves painfully atop his head and when he finally disentangled and pulled his hand away, several clumps of hopelessly matted hair came away with it. "When's the next full?"
"You will refer to me as Auror Shacklebolt, Black," Kingsley snapped, eyes narrowed. Sirius recoiled reflexively, casting his eyes downward to the pebbled shore. Finally—finally, Sirius felt the Auror's gaze fall upon him, and the other wizard's tone softened ever so slightly.
"Tonight," Kingsley muttered, his voice nearly carried away in the howling of the bitter, unrelenting wind as they trudged up the shoreline and headed for the quaint fishing village looming in the distance.
"And—and he's not expected to…that is to say, Madam Pomfrey d-doesn't expect him t-to…"
His inquiry died upon his lips once more. He could not bring himself to utter the words, to breathe reality into them. His stomach churned as they trudged forth, shoulders hunched against the biting, frigid wind. A wave of nausea rolled over him, and with it, a sheen of cold sweat developed on his brow despite the biting chill of the air.
They had reached the outskirts of the quaint village now, the shoreline opening up to a rough gravel lane. Sirius trailed behind Kingsley, his strides awkward and restricted due to his shackled, bare feet that had gone numb from the chill before even setting foot outside the walls of Azkaban. With no warning, Kingsley turned on his heel to face Sirius, hooked a rough hand tightly around the other man's upper arm, and Sirius felt the crushing sensation of apparition smother him, the sudden tightness of the air roaring and pulsating in his ears.