AN: So, this is especially for rumorandsigh, who is a legend mwah

I hope all of you who read chapter 1 weren't put off by super-pessimist Remus…not that he cheers up much AT ALL in this next section, in which Sirius comes to bid a somewhat bitter (and not at all fluffy) farewell. Man, PoA is SO depressing…can you imagine believing in the betrayal and duplicity of your best friend for twelve years! Man… anyhoo…I wish you all enjoyment in reading this…the other 3 chapters are written, so excluding computer malfunction, I shouldn't be too slow in posting the rest (provided you want it).

Disclaimer: let me just check….nope. Not mine. Neither is 'Thick As Thieves' by the Jam, who rock more than words can say. Incidentally, all of these songs vaguely relate to the period, so if some are a bit obscure, sorry…

Alors, on commence…

2

Light from far-off stars is reflecting on oily puddles, and drifts of dead, soggy, skeletal leaves darken the pavements. Death and decay in all around I see, I think cynically. Everything is dying…and of course I am too weak to stop myself from plummeting, too.

Head down, hands plunged into warm pockets, a vicious wind whipping through my wispy hair and numbing my nose and eyelids. But I would chill to the spongy marrow of my bones even in mid-August, with the dog-day heat of summer pressing against me. And in truth, it would be a welcome exit to float away, anaesthetized through the bitter cold.

Look, I am losing my hold on my mask. I have managed – a brief glance at my watch – about twenty three minutes without them, before my composure breaks and shows its battered state in the feet that kick at cans, and the tears that leave warm tracks down my chin.

I am almost at my flat, my weak hands, feeling as though they are someone else's, are fumbling for my keys.

It is my foolish sentimentality that makes me pause, and do stupid things like look at the keys in the orange light of a street lamp.

The fob is a single red panel of leather, with 'I love Iceland' stamped in gold, gold that is fading now that I have caressed it so often. He bought one for each of us, and some odd, spicy biscuits, and laughed with us that he hated Iceland, and hated his family. And the next year, he moved out.

It was then, I suppose, that I should have wavered. I should have thrown away my reticence and my doubts and my fear of alienating James and opened my door to him. If not as a lover, because I could never be a glam-rock queen with two fingers stuck up at the world, then as a dear, trusted friend.

But times change, and I face years alone now. And the contemplation of even one night (this night that is laughing at me now) is enough to make me sob audibly, for my bed is so cold, and my cupboard is so sparsely populated with one cup and one plate, and there is only one toothbrush by my sink. If it is not Sirius, then who?

Times were so tough, but not as tough as they are now, we were so close and nothing came between us - and the world - no personal situations

A roaring fills my ears, but it is as music to me.

I am stricken, a rabbit, with white white hot light washing my face, and catching individual strands of hair and making my eyes redder than, in reality, they are, as he draws up to the kerb.

I don't think I ever saw anything as beautiful, as alive, as Sirius Black dismounting from that machine for the first time, clad in thick leather, pulling off his helmet so his hair fell in random squiggles all across his eyes, and he smiled with such a ferocity that I could not help but feel a piece of my heart disappear.

I have not sated my appetite for that image, and as he repeats it before me now, with the mud from the streets splashed up his black thighs, I feel a great pang that circumstances must always change, contexts must always twist themselves into enemies.

And yet…his smile is missing.

I cannot tell if he is splintering into pieces inside, just like me. Or whether he really – as I surmised this evening with tears pricking at the lining of my skull – does not care anymore, and wants only to mock poor, abandoned, sensitive Moony. Well, I shall be as impassive and cold as the satellite that governs my rage.

'What are you doing here, Sirius?...'

His boots scuff dead leaves – they pervade every corner of my monochrome world.

'Didn't think much of your goodbye.'

'It is goodbye, then?'

For a moment his eyes seem to cast down and try to shield the same sadness I am suppressing. But I think it is a trick of the light.

'Yeah…What else?'

Oh God, I am failing, I am going to lose control here, on the pavement, in front of my greatest, my oldest friend, who I will never be ready to let go. I can almost hear his giggles with James, and wine glasses chinking together while I do the washing up, and all the days I spent in the library instead of taunting lesser mortals alongside them come back to prod me in the side.

'You don't trust me, do you?'

He is very close to me, somehow. His boots are nearly on my worn trainers. I am struck by how much greater he is than me…we are around the same height, but I can never command the same pulsing aura as he. Another reason to hate and envy him, and to love him and fall sobbing into tortured dreams at the thought of losing his respect.

And with a flash I remember the only time I was better than him.


Thick as thieves us, we'd stick together for all time, and we meant it but it turns out just for a while, we stole the friendship that bound us together

I couldn't have cared less whether I had killed Severus, or not. Once the initial numbing fear that Sirius might be expelled had passed, I revelled in being righteous…I played the martyr, the betrayed friend with every sneaky fibre of my being.

I remember the days of silence, and guilt, and resolve to stick, for once, to morals and principles. I held on so fast to Dumbledore's words and kindness when I came to Hogwarts, and I recalled (though it hurt like a burning match held against the skin) all the occasions that I was alone, shunned by my Marauders. The cruel teasing, meant in jest, but cutting to the quick. That way, it was easier to feel superior while he wheedled and pleaded and begged to be my friend again.

I confess, I enjoyed the feeling. I knew it would not last long.

'It doesn't have to be about trust, does it? There'll be time for discussion and talk…and stuff after the war, won't there, won't there, Moony? Remus?'

I do not understand the look in his eyes right now. As though there is some blindingly obvious second meaning to his words. I was always crap at reading Sirius.

'Wh-what are you saying, Sirius?'

'I don't know any more…it can't end like this…like we…like strangers and criminals, Moony…'

He never said a truer word. But he is insinuating something I cannot touch.

There were times, when James was somewhere else, or with Lily, or too insensitive, that I would be the ultimate in confidantes. It would be a foolishly rose-tinted falsehood to say that we told each other everything, for I hid so many dirty little secrets away in dusty corners of my mind (some that have been there so long that I have almost forgotten they ever existed). But nevertheless, I was an ear for all his outpourings.

He told me in such minute detail of his first kiss that I could almost believe (so reluctantly, being only a 2nd year) I was Ellen, feeling my head tilting to one side while he ran his tongue over my lips.

Being privy to such intimate confessions…it hurts now that he will not even look me in the eye. I try so hard to pretend that I do not give a fig for his stupid Fidelius Charm, that it is immaterial that he has not shared his fears and doubts.

But I would be happy for him even to gloat over me, that I have never been, nor will ever be, the Chosen One. The one who is knit into James and Lily's marriage, who beams from every picture, who shares each step so willingly.

I would welcome even words of typical arrogance, just to convince me that I am not dreaming, that he really is going away from me for noble reasons.

He will talk to Peter, oh yes, that scrawny little leftover who was never treated to such reminiscences. Why begin now? Have I not proved my trustworthiness? Whatever…it is too much effort…

'Everything will be alright. We are the good guys, remember…'

Like a perfect stranger - you came into my life, then like the perfect lone ranger - you rode away - rode away, rode away - rode away

The smile is back – but I can see gaps appearing in it, horrid voids that call to me.

'Yes. We are, aren't we? Merlin, let's hope it stays that way.'

I can almost hear blackboards screeching, flocks of crows rising screaming before the moon - there is an ominous drumbeat just out of earshot, I am certain. Suddenly he is scaring me, I wish he had remained with his beloved James and his stupid godson, and left me in peace, and not come to stand and taunt me with lingering, hidden messages.

And indeed, he is nearly gone.

I feel his arms around me just once more, and though it is full of fire, his embrace already seems like a ghost. I swear he whispers something hotly and passionately in my ear – a hiss of something loving or hating, I cannot tell. His lips are mixed with my hair, and it is a haphazard, spontaneous…bitter way to end this most wonderful of friendships.

But I must realise now, that such things are often one-sided. Unrequited, even in the platonic.

I tear away from him, and I see – guilt? Disgust? Despair…so many melodramatic emotions – in his hands fallen at his sides, limply.

I fumble at the door…

'You still got that old thing?' he indicates the Iceland keyring.

'Ye. I have, actually.'

I can trust myself no longer. I run up the stairs, and hear the door swing back. The flat is dark, but blue, orange, white lights flood in through the open curtains, casting the usual shadows.

I pull aside the net blind, and see him put on his helmet slowly and ride away, red lights blazing through the night. He does not once look up at my window, or run his hand through his hair. He simply leaves.

And…though it wounds me to think it…it is probably for the best.

There are pictures on my windowsill, framed, dancing images. I am a fool to let my eyes wander over them, hearing nothing but the roar of a far-off motorway and my own hitching breath.

With each moving image…I cannot put words to the stinging that grabs the bridge of my nose, spilling yet more tears. They each stab me, with their nonchalant, oblivious smiles.

I thought it would be easy…I thought there would be only one face staring clearly at me, obscuring the others who once posed for my camera.

But it hurts to look at any reminder of what tonight ripped away from me.

It will not come back to me.

No it wasn't enough - and we've gone and spoiled everything, now we're no longer as thick as thieves

AN: hmmm, I was hoping to make more out of Sirius believing Remus was the traitor (that one line in PoA about that really gets me)…but it didn't seem to manifest itself. Ah well, at least you know what my intentions were. I hope you enjoyed it, come back soon for some non-MarySue RLOC. And completely gratuitous Bob Dylan lyrics….hard to beat, really : )