On the Way Home by Mum-to-You

"This isn't home, and it won't ever be," Sirius thought, and he shuddered as he started up the stairs. The eyes of old house-elves stared sightlessly at him. Behind him, the shuffling of small feet chafed on the mouldy, aging carpet. There was a stumble, and that awful umbrella stand he hated so much clattered to the floor and crashed into the wall. Immediately, the curtain near the door flew open, and Sirius heard a voice he had hoped never to hear again.

"YOU! COME HOME TO CLAIM YOUR INHERITANCE, I SEE. FINALLY MADE SOMETHING OF YOURSELF, I HEARD. QUITE A SET-TO THAT WAS, BUT AS IT WAS ONLY MUGGLES--"

"Shut up, you nasty old bitch! Just shut up!" Sirius screamed at his mother's charmed portrait. "I didn't spend all those years in Azkaban just to come back and be congratulated by you!"

"DO NOT SPEAK TO ME IN THAT TONE, BOY. IT'S THE ONE WORTHWHILE THING YOU'VE EVER DONE, EVEN IT DOES MAKE MY OWN SON A MURDERER. WORTH IT, I--"

"I didn't kill anyone, do you hear me!"

"YOU LIE! WHAT DO YOU MEAN?"

"You heard me," he repeated with steel in his voice. "I didn't kill anyone. No Muggles, no anyone. It was Pettigrew. I was innocent. I would never have betrayed Lily and James to Voldemort."

"YOU DARE SPEAK THAT NAME! GET OUT, YOU BLOOD TRAITOR! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

"Get out of my house. Or climb down off that wall and make me leave, Mummy." Sirius jerked the curtains back in place, and the noise from the portrait stilled. He spun around and looked down at the house-elf. "You did that on purpose, didn't you, Kreacher?" he snapped.

"Oh, how could young Master say such a thing? Kreacher is getting old, can't see very well." The little elf's nose was practically brushing the ground as he bowed, but his bulbous eyes narrowed with loathing and suspicion as he looked up.

"Right," Sirius muttered. "I'll need something to eat, Kreacher. And so will the hippogriff. Hurt him, and I'll kill you." Kreacher's eyes widened at his matter-of-fact tone. "Then draw me a bath, and get me the papers. Oh, and I'll need a haircut. But first--" Sirius sighed and looked up the steep stairs. "First, I need to sleep. I don't want to be disturbed," he finished, and then he turned without a second glance at the house-elf and walked up the stairs.

Without thinking about it and without realizing it, Sirius had become the lord of the manor, and Kreacher sensed his authority and hastened to obey. The house had a new master, and Kreacher had no choice but to follow a direct order. Besides, the Mistress hadn't hated her son quite so much towards the end. Kreacher would obey. And watch.

Sirius hesitated at the door of his old room. He hadn't set foot in it in over twenty years. He turned the doorknob slowly and took a deep breath before entering. He walked in, looked around, and sighed. The room was just like him. Nothing had changed, just aged. The curtains and bed linens were dusty and faded, the fabric almost translucent in places. He took out his wand and waved it towards the fireplace, saying, "Incendio!" At once, there was a fire burning, and the room began to warm.

He shivered against the sudden warmth and pulled a chair up to the hearth. He sat down and pulled out Remus' most recent letter with disgust. "Who the hell does Remus think he is?" Sirius thought. "Bossing me around like a child in nappies. What a prick!" Sirius got up and rummaged angrily through the dresser for parchment and a quill. He dipped the quill into what remained of a nearly dry bottle of ink and started to write.

But before he marked on the parchment, he paused. "You promised to work hard on the patience," he remembered to himself. He would need it, too, if Remus was going to be like this. He threw the quill back down on the table and stood up abruptly.

"AAAUUUGH!" he roared. Then he leapt up, grabbed the desk chair, and hurled it at the wall. "Damn him, anyway!" Breaking something made him feel better, so he seized up Remus' preposterous letter and hurled it onto the fire. He watched it ignite and smolder for a minute, the firelight casting eerie shadows on his hollow cheeks. Then just as impulsively, he stuck his hand into the flames and grabbed the letter back.

"Damn!" he exclaimed, as he stuck his burned fingers into his mouth and stamped out the flames with his shoe. He looked around the room frantically as if looking for something he had lost. "Oh, Remus, what's wrong with me? I think I'm losing my mind," he murmured to himself. He dropped to the floor and carefully sifted thought the charred bits of parchment for what remained of his hasty judgment. On the scrap of parchment, three words remained in Remus' neat, ordered, decisive hand: I need you.

Tears of fatigue and frustration ran down Sirius' face as he cradled his blistering hand. He was too tired even to think. Then it dawned on him that Remus somehow, in some way, instinctively knew that. And Remus had done the thinking for him. Tears of relief began to flow in earnest, and he made no attempt to stop them. After being alone for so long, he had his partner again. This was that "for better or for worse" thing they had promised each other so long ago, and it seemed as if they finally were being given a chance to keep the promises that had meant so much at the time. And did again now, in even more profound ways than they had ever imagined.

Sirius stood, turned on his heel, and looked back at the blank parchment on the dresser, then shook his head. He still wasn't ready to reply. He would be patient--with Remus and with himself. Clutching the charred bit of parchment painfully in his burned hand, Sirius flung himself on the bed and slept like the dead.

A few days later, Sirius was back on the road again, rested, healthier, saner. Somewhere outside of Exeter, he paused under a tree to wait for nightfall. In the remaining light of a blessedly warm evening, he smiled to himself as he thought about what he wanted to say. Remus had been right, damn him. And God love him. Sirius took out the parchment and quill and began the reply in his distinctive, belligerent scrawl.

Dear Remus,
I took your advice and stayed at the house in London for a few days. As usual, your advice was spot on, even if you can be a real bastard when you try. I'm better rested and feeling more, well, positive about things. Going to London was more dangerous than I wanted, but at least that nasty little toerag of a house elf can't snitch on me. I also got him to trim up my hair a bit, so I hope you're right that I'm less likely to be recognized. I obviously had to stay in the house the whole time, and I have to say that I hope I never have to spend that much time there ever again. Not exactly cheerful accommodations, but at least I could rest up a bit and catch up on the news in the Prophet.

I'm back on the road with Bucky again, and I managed to break into a house somewhere near the coast in Devon to talk to Harry. How did I know it was a wizard house, you might ask? Believe me, if this house hadn't been held together with magic, it wouldn't have stood up! Made quite a ruckus getting in, what with chickens and garden gnomes all over the place, but fortunately no one was home. I was able to make away with a couple of really good mince pies, too. That was a treat, but Merlin, I hate stealing. I probably could have snooped a bit to find out whose house it is, but I stuck to the kitchen and took care of my business. Maybe someday I can find a way to repay them, whoever they are.

Now for Harry. Christ on a bike, Moony, he's in trouble. The first task is something to do with a load of fucking dragons! And unfortunately someone interrupted us before I could help him much with that. I was thinking of getting at the eyes with a Conjunctivitis curse, but I didn't get a chance to explain how to do it. Let's hope Hermione was able to help him figure something out with that because the Weasley boy is being an absolute prat about things, and they aren't even speaking! I'll try to find a paper for an update, but I'm trying to stay hidden as much as possible.

I think the Ron situation is the worst part for Harry, you know. Harry says everyone, including Ron, of all people, thinks he's on some sort of ego trip and that Hermione says Ron is just jealous. Can you imagine anyone wanting to trade places with the boy? Just ridiculous! He says what that Skeeter woman you mentioned has been writing about him is a load of crap, but everyone is still treating him like a leper. Think what it would've been like to face a dragon without your best mates behind you, Remus. It never would've happened to us, would it? James would've been the front man, but it would always be a group effort, right?

I also told Harry to watch out for Igor Karkaroff. He was in prison with me for a bit, but he managed to talk his way out by naming names. The Death Eaters in Azkaban hate his guts, I know that. I've been reading between the lines on the news, and I think that attack on Moody was the real deal and that someone wanted to keep him away from Hogwarts. I also think Bertha managed to cross paths (Thanks, Wormtail!) with Voldemort and spilled the beans about the Tournament. Someone very much wants to hurt Harry and make it look like an accident. It can't be Peter because he can only do so much as a rat, and even less as a human. So you're right, there must be someone else at Hogwarts who's a Death Eater. That means Karkaroff or Snape. Take your pick, right? Hell, maybe it's both.

All right, I'm talking myself back into a depression here, and I'm on my way to see my best mate in the whole world. That will never do! I'll owl you again when I have an idea when I'll be there. Buckbeak says to give you a big kiss.

Love you,
Padfoot

P.S. When all is said and done, thank you for keeping your promises so faithfully. Thank you for sharing the burden when it was too much for me. Thank you for giving me hope. I love you more than you can know.

P.P.S. Have you given any thought at all as to what in the bloody hell we're going to tell Harry?

Sirius sent the owl winging its way towards Bristol with his letter. Once darkness fell completely, he mounted Buckbeak and began the last leg of his journey home.