Disclaimer: Not mine, never mine, J.K. Rowling. Blah blah....
Dedication: To the Beatles, for composing the wonderful song, Yesterday; To anyone who has ever felt the feelings expressed in that song; And to my friend Cally, who is Beatles-obsessed and so deserves to have this dedicated to her simply on that principle.
Author's Note: This was written in the wee hours of early Easter morn, and to the gorgeous song by the Beatles, Yesterday. Hence the title, and the dedication. Yet, I still will not call this a songfic, and am offended by anyone who would do so. The song simply sets its mood, and Remus listens to it in the story as he reflects… But I'm getting ahead of myself. This was written in first person—a form of writing I am not skilled in, and in present tense—a form of writing that I am even less skilled in than first person. Please forgive me if it's not quite up to my usual pare, it's my first try. Also, the change in tense at certain parts of the story is meant. It's supposed to add to the mood of the story. This is, I think, becoming one of my favorites of the ones that I've written, even though, or possibly because of the fact that, I wrote it a form I have little experience in or excel in. So… now that you have read all my small (or not so small) notes, go read!
"Yesterday"
I croon away to the song, Yesterday, playing off my Muggle Beatles' record. This is the depth to which I have sunken. I am sure that only Paul McCartney can truly understand the terrible heartache that I suffer, and I sing even louder in my messy London flat as I stare out the window to rain-drenched streets, watching the passersby execute the action for which they are named for.
The words truly speak to me. "Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away. Now it looks as though they're here to stay. Oh I believe in yesterday." I have thoroughly depressed myself in contemplating these words far too long than can be healthy. I have had the same song playing over and over the better part of three hours today, as well as for most of the two days before this, using a magical repeating spell that I am sure was created only to annoy the Muggle neighbors of its inventor. Already I have received four calls from the two Muggle families on either side of my small apartment. If I weren't so sad, I would find this amusing. Or if I wouldn't, Sirius would have and then he would have cranked up the volume.
Thinking of him hurts—holding his name on the tip of my tongue, tasting its bitterness, but not letting it escape passed my tight lips and sink into the nothingness of the air. I will not allow myself to be conquered by its memory, not like I was conquered by its owner. I do not permit myself to dwell on him anymore, and in doing so, ironically dwell oh him even more. Sirius loved the Beatles. He owned nearly all of their albums, playing them on a Muggle record player he bought at some thrift store. I laughed at him for doing so at first, but now I am glad. It is one of the few things I have left of him. They were some of the things he forgot when he initially left me. He won't be needing them now anyway, not in Azkaban. I wonder if he remembers dancing to them, to those pretty harmonies and delicate notes. Holding me close by the light of candlelight, blinds drawn close as to not let in the street light. I wonder if he even remembers me.
I then rebuke myself for thinking of such things. He is not the Sirius Black you knew, I remind myself again for already the millionth time today and before lunch too. He is different now. He is a murderer. He killed your best friends, Peter, James, Lily. He left poor little Harry parentless, to raised by his horrid Muggle aunt and uncle. I stare at the picture on the table by the chair I sit in, legs curled up around me. It is of Sirius holding Harry, a large, brilliant smile illuminating his face and a cute, happy giggle spread over Harry's chubby baby face as Sirius makes him wave at the camera with one hand and tickles him so that he will smile with the other.
I examine the background of trees blowing in the light summer breeze in the photo and recall the day when that picture was taken. Lily and James had invited us on a picnic with them and little Harry in the month of late June. Were you already working for Voldemort then, Sirius? It was just before Harry's first birthday and a few months after Sirius had moved out of the flat. I think it was James' way of trying to reunite Sirius and myself. Even though we remained in high spirits around our friends when we were all together, there was tension between us. I was still hurt and angry with him for leaving, even though I could understand his reasoning. If Voldemort comes after me, I don't want you in danger as well, I recollect him saying to me as he packed a dusty brown bag with clothes and a few bathroom necessities. I remember sitting on the bed we shared together, tears filling my eyes, wanting him not to leave even with the danger his staying promised to bring, but pride got in my way. I didn't tell him to stay. I didn't go after him, even though I knew he was staying with Lily and James at first, before getting a small place alone. I was stupid. It added to the strain between us as we went to that park together on that lovely sunny day.
Harry was having a jolly good time, suffering from all four of us babying him. I never remember seeing his godfather in such high spirits as he was that day. The solemnity of the times usually weighed heavily on his shoulders, but he seemed to forget about that as he rolled in the grass, tickling his godson. James and Lily stood watching, beaming like the proud parents that they were. I watched from a spot underneath a tree on the blue-checkered blanket, supposedly reading my book instead of joining in with the gaiety. Eventually, and with much procrastinating, Sirius finally gave Harry back to his loving parents. As Lily and James fawned over their darling son, he came to sit by me, grabbing a sip of some of his pumpkin juice and pulling me from my haven in the shade of the leaves into the sun.
C'mon, Moony! he shouted joyfully, his strong hands clamped around mine. He dragged me onto the grassy field, spinning me around in merriment.
"Sirius, stop!" I begged him through the laughter arising in my voice. He spun me faster until the scenery around us was nothing but a blur. "Sirius!" I squealed, laughter raising my mood. He abruptly stopped and pulled me into a tight embrace.
He wrapped his strong, safe, muscular arms around my light torso, whispering, You told me to stop lightly against my lips as he intensified the pressure into a passionate kiss. I allow him to quickly deepen the kiss, bringing my hands to run through his soft, ebon hair, pulled back into a loose ponytail, and over his brawny shoulders that are covered only by his tight red Muggle tee shirt. I breathe in his scent as he holds me close, his lips moving slowly over mine, his mouth wet and warm. I taste its warm wetness, mingled with a mixture of cool sweet-sourness from the pumpkin juice. It is something I have not had the privilege to experience since April, and something I have had the privilege of experiencing since.
He pulled back slowly, unsure what to do next. I understand that passion had just overcome him and he had not originally planned to kiss me. I try to reassure him by leaning in to close the distance between us again and ignite another kiss, but Lily interrupts us, throwing Harry into Sirius's arms, leaving no room for me. For a moment I envy the small child. James insists that Harry deserves a picture with his godfather. Lily holds the camera ready. Sirius contends that I should be included in the photo, pulling at my light blue tee shirt as I begin to pull away. I kindly refuse, promising that I will be in the next one. Sirius looks deep into my hazel eyes and whispers sincerely, But I want you in it with me… I know then that he still loves me. I smile, feeling a wave of happiness surge through me, but decline again. He concedes, but insists that I be the one to take the picture. He gives me one of his brilliant wide grins, like the ones that used to greet me in the morning along with a gentle kiss on the nose, and makes Harry wave. I snap the photo just as Lily calls us to sit down to lunch. I sit very close to Sirius.
The evening commences with two of our small family asleep. The sun was setting, sending out stripes of red and orange, pink and purple across the sky. Harry lies asleep in his small baby seat on one corner of the blanket. James and Lily dance with each other to unheard music in the eye of the setting sun, receiving rightful "aww"s from the Muggles passing by. Sirius's head lies in my lap. He is also asleep. I read my book, watching Harry and Lily and James, with one hand lovingly stroking Sirius's hair. I still love him.
A sad smile is on my face as I open my eyes. The picture has moved from the little table by the chair into my hands as I remember. That was a good day I tell myself. A good day, but it is passed. I look out the window again. Not as many people are on the street now. They are probably at lunch. My mind slips and the thought of inviting Lily and James over to lunch nearly is contemplated I curse myself for ever keeping the picture and slam it face down on the small, circular table. They're dead I reminded myself fiercely, praying it stirs up enough pain to never forget it again. Dead! And why? Sirius Black! I think the name with a new bitterness.
I focus all my anger and hurt and negative feelings of guilt, embarrassment, and shame into hating him. I almost succeed, yet I falter. I pick up the picture again, staring at his face. Smooth skin, silky black hair falling into his round face, loving, happy, milky gray eyes, and that dazzling smile—they're all aimed at me. I think back to days like that one, spent in the company of good friends, friends that were loved so much they became family; happy, love-filled moments that were stolen in times of war and death. I think of him. Nights spent wrapped safely in his arms, my head resting on his bare chest, listening to his even breathing and the constant, soothing beating of his heart. Those were times that I lived for, those times made up my life.
"That's not him," I whisper aloud to myself, squeezing the tears back into my eyes that had suddenly appeared. I press the picture against my heart. "That's not who he is anymore—he's a cold-blooded killer. He took all those dreams from you—all that happiness. You can't love him…"
Yet the creature of doubt remains in my mind. It wonders how Sirius could have really done all that, how he could have betrayed everyone, how he could have betrayed me. It insists that it wasn't him, that it was someone else, that he was framed. It struggles against my knowledge of reality. It pleads that he was framed, that the authorities could have been mistaken, that it could all be taken back and everything would be right again. I can feel the warm tears sink down my cool, pale cheeks.
"No, no," I tell it, shutting my eyes tighter to stop the tears from leaking down my face, trying to make everything seem okay. "He is the killer. He wasn't framed. He betrayed me! He betrayed us…"
But it does no good. The tears still come, wetting my face as I keep my eyes closed, submerging me in total darkness. The doubt still remains, still yelling in my head that Sirius could never do something like this, that my Sirius could never be capable of such things.
It is then that I realize something. It is perhaps something I should have realize long ago, right from the start of things, ever since I heard the news in the first week of that November. The Sirius that did this—that betrayed Lily and James, that left Harry parentless, that killed all those Muggles in the street along with our friend Peter Pettigrew—that Sirius isn't my Sirius. My Sirius could never have done any of those things. The Sirius that committed those vile crimes was Voldemort's Sirius, and that Sirius had killed mine.
It seemed much like a Star Wars thing to me. When Luke heard that Darth Vadar had killed his father, yet Darth Vadar was actually his father… The Emperor had made Darth Vadar evil, and in doing so, killed the remains of the man that had been Luke's father. I screw up my face as I make that analogy, but I shrug if off. It worked in the movie.
I sigh and place the picture down, staring at the black-haired man that smiled so ecstatically at me. There was my Sirius, I thought to myself with pride. The man in the papers is not he. He is some stranger that had inhabited my Sirius's body. He is a murderer, a cold-blooded killer, another agent of Voldemort's and my Sirius had just been another tragic victim of his. I take a deep, sad breath at the realization and stand up. I have had enough sitting for the day. It is time to move on.
I walk over to the record player and lift the needle off, stopping the music. I haven't even been listening to the song. The lyrics don't really apply to me, and they cease to speak to me. Sirius was gone and never coming back. I would miss him, but no longer feel the strong sense of betrayal.
" 'Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be…'" I quote from memory of the song. " 'There's a shadow hanging over me. Oh I believe in yesterday.'" I look in the direction of the picture and nod my head. "Here's to you, Sirius."
Fin
A/N: Well that was lovely wasn't it? It was a bit depressing, but as I said before, I think it's one of my favorite pieces that I've written, if not my favorite. I think it turned out really great. And as such, I would appreciate if you reviewed to tell me what you thought. Thank for reading!
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