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...and that was it.
Up until that moment, everything was clear, preserved like a fossil in amber. Sirius reviewed his childhood and his adolescence in the way a monk poured over the Bible, repeating and replicating it into infinity, treasuring the orderance and contemplation of every sight and sound and scent while locked away in his ivory tower.
(His tower was not made of ivory.)
Sirius had organized this time to perfection, solidified it within himself, crystallizing it until it was pure and perfect and unforgettable. Some of these memories were happy, but not all- perhaps, not even most- and as such, when woven together, his tapestry was untouchable, untarnishable by the reach of any dark and malintentioned hands. Hogwarts was his home. He knew every moment he had spent there as well as he knew the sight of his own hands- or paws.
But that was the end of it, there, that was where the thread wore thin: Remus pointed to the envelope on his bed and said to him, "I think you have one, too," and that was it, after that there came the fog…after that, Sirius didn't remember so very well. After that, everything began to merge, damaged like tampered memories in a Pensieve, mélange, what he did know he couldn't place in proper order, couldn't find context, his life had been clipped and restitched and what was missing, Sirius didn't know if he even had anymore…
Sirius looked up through the bars on his window, through which a cold Atlantic wind blew. The moon was less than a quarter full, and waning. On this night, its face was in part obscured by high clouds that strayed across it, like patches of gray sheep's wool.
In the distance, a man was singing, his voice ragged and without tune.
The only other sound came from the rattling breath of the Dementors.
The fire in the hearth of the Hog's Head crackled merrily, more merrily than the dingy setting deserved. Sirius looked about at the faces of the others who sat with him- so many he knew, so many he didn't- James and Peter and Remus, of course, but also Lily and Marlene, and Frank and Alice and Emmeline and Caradoc, all of whom had graduated in years before, and Hagrid the groundskeeper- oh, but there was an Auror he did not know, 'Moody', another young Ministry worker, 'Diggle'...and others, and others still, and the bartender and Dumbledore himself, and Sirius couldn't keep track of all these names, all these formidable people, meeting here in such circumstance and secrecy, their faces shadowed by what was coming and eyes alight with what they must do…
(But he had known all their names, had he not? Why could he not remember now? Some of the faces, in his memory, seemed to blur...)
The Order of the Phoenix.
He remembered that much.
Sirius looked across the room at James, catching his eye. Excitement, that was it, unmistakable on his best friend's face- and Sirius knew it within himself, too. Something about this felt grandiose, glorious, like destiny, like Sirius had spent all this time uncertain of his future because his future had been waiting for him, unknowable until it struck him across the face. Sirius thought of super-spies, of secret codes, of warriors and soldiers and Intelligence capital I, me myself and, he felt powerful. James winked at him, a flicker in the firelight, and Sirius knew he felt just the same.
Sirius looked then at Remus, whose eyes glowed as they always did in flame, beautiful and terrifying Remus. He was listening to Dumbledore's softly spoken words (Sirius was not) and his expression was one of quiet unease.
Sirius gripped his hands together to stop them trembling. He was not afraid. He imagined he must be made for this.
We are at war.
A declaration, silent in every newspaper, spread across the headings of history textbooks that had yet to be written.
For the people, the days were tenebrous, oh, uncertain, disappearances, fights in the streets, shops closed down suddenly and whispers on alley corners. Curses that made no noise, lights that cut through the dark.
Sirius remembered wearing another man's face as he turned into Nocturne Alley, his eyes and ears held open, his face downturned to the pavement. He had been given a mission, he had come here to discover things, the movements and intentions of the Enemy.
He remembered that the air had smelled of old moss.
Cheers. There was a party. Something had happened- a safe had been cracked, a secret uncovered, Sirius couldn't remember, but he knew it had been a victory, he felt it in his every bone. The young members of the Order all toasted cheap wine and clinked their glasses, too rowdy for this Muggle neighbourhood, and Sirius felt just like he always had in school, pulling tricks on ill-spirited Slytherins. What was the difference, really, between this and that? They had simply moved out of the sandbox, out of the kiddy-pool. Sirius thought of himself as a hero.
"Come on, get up you lugs," James called, sharing Sirius' spirit exactly; he spoke to Remus and Lily, whose heads were together in a corner, quiet murmurs. "We're winning! Come now, no need to mope…"
"There's still so much to do," Lily said, voice soft. "You know it's not over yet."
"No," James agreed, and he kissed the back of her hand. "But for tonight, it is."
Lily smiled, melting just a little, and let herself be led away. Remus remained in his chair, his glass still full. He looked at Sirius, and Sirius said nothing, for all his words had dried up. He hadn't the courage to kiss Remus' hand, to make obvious before all these people their little crime.
…and after that? Had the party continued, or been dampened? Sirius wasn't sure. The moment faded away.
"Dumbledore has a mission for me," Remus said in the cool dark. Sirius' lips were pressed to his shoulder blades, vicious and arching things that he laved and soothed with his tongue. Their bodies were still cooling from it, entwined, Sirius felt satisfied. Remus never looked satisfied.
"An important mission?"
"Liaison to the werewolves."
A bitter whisper. Sirius sat up to look at him, to the distant strain in his wide eyes, but Moony didn't return his gaze, no.
"What werewolves?"
Remus did look at him then, and Sirius saw something in the pinprick of his pupils that was blacker than the deepest stretches of outer space.
"...the only ones worth talking to. Greyback's pack."
"Greyback…"
Remus looked out again, back up at the night sky, and even though Sirius had just been inside him he seemed suddenly so far away Sirius couldn't touch him at all.
Dirty paws became dirty hands. A skeleton's hands, naught but thin grey skin stretched out over bones. It seemed impossible that there could be any blood in those hands at all. Sirius didn't recognize them. For a long, long time, he didn't recognize them even slightly.
The guard was cycling back around, Sirius could feel the chill approaching in the air; he became the dog again, and was relieved- now, these he knew, these did belong to him. Padfoot, that was his name.
Now, what confused him was that he was alone.
Sirius lay his head back against the wood, breathless, elated, his side stung but he felt like he was high, like his heart had rarely ever beat faster, like he had done something great and song-worthy. His blood was still hot. There had been a fight- who had they fought- that's right, Death Eaters, that's what they were calling themselves these days, the Slytherins who had gone on and grown up…Sirius did not remember the fight. He thought, however, that he had won.
James sat opposite him, blood on his cheek and fire in his eyes, and he grinned at Sirius and Sirius grinned back. He felt young. He felt nearly as good as he did as a dog, racing through the Forbidden Forest under the full moon.
Lily came bursting in on them then, asking what had happened and where they had been, her eyes huge and terrified and what was that, oh, it was sweet…James assured her and she set to healing his wounds with trembling hands and Sirius watched and though he knew he was next in the triage line he felt, for a moment, a little pain…such a familiar pain…but Remus was not here. Remus was with the werewolves.
(The other werewolves, that was.)
Sirius closed his eyes and lay his spinning mind back and breathed deep through his nose, and chose to revel in what he had accomplished.
Sirius returned home and Remus was there, sitting at the rickety wooden table with his face in his palms, the balls of them pressed to his eyelids. There was a cup of tea in the place before him, but it seemed to have cooled, unconsumed. His shoulders were hunched, too thin, he always looked ragged no matter what he wore, as though 'threadbare' was a disease and he was sick with it as much as he was with lycanthropy.
"Moony."
Remus looked up at him then, eyes red and strained as though from crying, oh, obviously, he had been crying. Sirius rushed to sit beside him, he wanted to be close, in the back of his mind he knew Remus had been gone a while, the dog in him yearned, and the man did too. Remus smelled of campfire.
"How did it go?" Sirius asked.
"Fine," Remus replied, a word that contradicted his appearance in every way. "It was fine."
Remus looked only at his cold tea and so Sirius leaned in and kissed him, tilting his head up with something like force, the way a dog might nudge another under the nose. Remus let him. If nothing else, Remus let him.
Small victories.
Oh, everyone was so serious. Dumbledore scolded them for partying, for making play of it, exchanging taunts as well as curses with the Death Eaters, with the Slytherins. The blue eyes behind those spectacles were startling in their intensity- was this really the kindly old headmaster Sirius remembered? Did Dumbledore not remember them either? He had hired them straight out of school, the troublemakers, the bad boys, the Marauders with their Map…
Dumbledore told them of secret killings. Muggle-borns taken from the street, bodies dumped in a mass grave on the edge of London.
After, Sirius looked about himself, and wondered why he couldn't stop feeling so sick.
Sirius was without. The moon outside was full and fat, well-fed, and yet he was alone- and when was he? It was hard to tell.
Perhaps he was in his little London flat, the one he had been assigned to, paid for with Dumbledore's funds, a basis for his missions with the Order. Yes, he was sitting there, his hands clamped together, inutile, fruitless. Remus needed to be with the werewolves at this time of the month, it was his mission to join up with them, pretend he was truly interested in being a member of their pack… and could he be? Why not? Was this not natural for him, more natural than what he'd had before- wolves and wolves, not wolves and dogs- Sirius knew Greyback had made Remus what he was, knew that those beautiful scars Sirius had always admired had been done by Greyback's teeth and Greyback's claws. The knowledge made Sirius' insides burn with a fire blacker than anything he had ever felt before. There was guilt, of course, that stoked the embers, because Remus had only ever shown distaste for that man, for his sire, but still- still, Sirius couldn't help it, the thoughts invaded him like poison- was it- was it not-
-was that not a connection greater than anything Sirius could ever have with him-?
-no, Sirius was not in London, he was not in that flat, though his hands were clasped before him just the same. The moon was still full outside his window, and he was still alone, and he did not know at all where Moony was, or how he passed his time.
Sirius was in Azkaban. He had no way of knowing.
Remus whimpered like an animal and Sirius knew he was being too rough, going about it too fiercely, but he couldn't stop himself. Remus had cuts on him, a bruise on his neck, and Sirius hadn't put it there and Sirius burned.
(Diseased twofold- he had a cancer in his heart and a fever in his brain, rotting, he wanted and he could not let anyone else take what he himself wouldn't properly lay claim to. Hypocrite. Dog.)
…but Remus liked it, didn't he, or at least he let it happen, close enough, and when it was over he hid his face in Sirius' neck and begged just hold me, please, just stay here and hold me, in a voice that sounded far frailer than anything Sirius had ever heard before. Sirius clung to him, desperate, as though what had just happened wasn't proof enough because it wasn't, really, Sirius felt like Remus was slipping from his arms. Sirius felt like he himself had let go long ago, like he was falling- and as his arms reached back up towards the place he had toppled from he didn't think they were long enough to find Remus and drag him down with him.
No, Remus was falling into an entirely separate sky.
"What do you think?" James asked him, James who had for the first time that Sirius could remember dark circles under his eyes, a certain haggard expression. Caradoc and Emmaline had been murdered. What had seemed a noble adventure had changed, had revealed its true nature.
James held out a small velvet box and in its aperture there was a ring, a silver band with a pink crystal affixed. Rose quartz. Sirius stared at it and for a moment, he didn't understand at all.
"It's not fancy," James explained, as though Sirius' silence meant something. "I couldn't afford- well. But do you think she'll like it?"
"Lily?"
"Of course, Lily."
"...she'll love it, mate. God…you two…"
Sirius didn't know how to say these things, so he pulled James into a hug instead, hoping he could hide the coldness he had felt within himself, disguise it in the larger- and genuine- warmth that rose with his understanding. Proposal, wedding, marriage. He would not be the sort of man envious of his best friend's happiness.
"You'll be the best man, of course," James said with a laugh like his former, untroubled self, one that Sirius returned, clapping him on the shoulder. "I wouldn't do it without you, Padfoot."
"Prongs," Sirius echoed, and there was another hug, and jokes and laughs and oddly, tears, and Sirius was happy, so happy, so happy for him-
(-though not without compromise.)
James proposed that night, and Lily said yes. Sirius knew there had never really been any doubt.
The wedding was one of the brightest things in Sirius' memory.
Perhaps it was so because everything around it was so bleak- a moment of joy and triumph, a jewel that sat alone on an expanse of dark velvet. It had been summer, the air had been warm, moving to the rhythm of a light breeze. The field of cattails had seemed to dance.
Lily wore a white dress that had belonged to her mother, and her mother was there, yes, and her father and her little sister, though only the first among them had looked truly happy, dazed and confused Muggles all- did they know how much danger their daughter and her new husband were in, did they know the scope of the wizarding war? Sirius didn't get a chance to ask. It hadn't seemed to matter. Lily, beautiful in a smile and flashing red hair, had taken up almost all the space in the world, and what she left behind was reserved for James, his trim black suit, his ruffled hair and his proud joy. Man and woman, husband and wife. They said their vows as the sun was setting, and when they were done everyone cheered, a great wild noise, an elation that meant so much more because of the context. It felt like rebellion, to have a wedding during a war. It felt like a reclamation, a reminder of what exactly they were fighting for, when they fought that monster of a man and his Death Eaters.
A photo was taken when the ceremony was done- James and Lily embraced, he kissed her cheek, but Sirius stood there too, a grin on his face so broad he surely looked foolish, best man. His speech was a good one, full of humour. Dear Prongs, I am so happy you found your doe…
He drank, oh, perhaps a little too much, but everyone did, and no one was sick, and nothing spilled over. Sirius looked about the yard, the cattails, the purple clouds and the fairy lights that danced back and forth in the grass; he thought that if this was what he was supposed to yearn for, it was nothing like how he had always imagined it, when his family had spoken of marriage and lineage and good-breeding.
(Breeding! Well, they would have to wait and see.)
Remus stood at the corner of the field, his thin fingers wrapped around the tail of a champagne flute, something that- Sirius thought- resembled him greatly, tall and thin and lovely but rigid also, breakable also. Remus smiled at him and it seemed a genuine smile and so Sirius went to his side, his heart beating like a proud living thing, and he was bolstered by alcohol and by the love in the atmosphere and so he took Remus' free hand, something that surprised them both.
"What are you thinking about, Moony?" Sirius asked, his words a little slurred from drink, and Remus smiled again, eyes downturned, demure.
"Nothing," he answered, and he didn't sound bitter. "I'm just happy. The weather is wonderful."
"It is," Sirius agreed, a little too boisterously, and then it slipped from him: "Do you want something like this?"
"...something like this?"
"You know," Sirius muttered, and it was clear Remus did know, a little colour had appeared on his wan cheeks. What a rare thing. "Us."
"Well…" the colour deepened, a frail rose pink, and Sirius wondered if they had ever been this way, really, ever been so earnest and so uncomplicated, if Sirius had ever been so brave…it didn't feel difficult then, being brave, not with the champagne and the cattails and the warm summer air. Indeed, it seemed like the easiest thing in the world. "...well that's illegal, Sirius, you know it doesn't happen that way."
I've told you so before, that was the implication, the little reproach in Remus' words. Sirius didn't mind it at all.
"Yeah, well," he said with a shrug. "Don't you want it, anyway?"
He said it so carelessly, so lightheartedly, and then Remus looked like he was going to cry and Sirius hadn't intended that, he had wanted him to smile. One crystal tear was flicked from a yellow-blue eye, a hypnotizing sight, and Sirius brushed it away with a clumsy thumb and thought himself silly for not having a kerchief, because in his head he had an image that told him he was supposed to, supposed to pull from his pocket a lacy thing and use it to comfort his darling, a knight, a classical gentleman. Remus was no damsel, of course. Just then, Sirius didn't really care.
"Hang on," he said, drunk-formed words. "Hang on, I'll go get you something…"
What? Another drink, a kerchief? A ring? Sirius didn't know, he didn't remember, he did remember turning and meeting the gaze of Marlene, the Maid of Honour, his counterpart…she had been watching them from across the field, and her expression held in it some awful thing, some kind of realization and maybe, very faintly, distaste…
One dark spot on an otherwise brilliant memory- but one that had faded. Sirius tried very hard, straining in his head like his brain was a muscle, trying to remember what happened next- had he gotten it, whatever he had wanted, had he gone back to Remus' side? Had he given him what he deserved?
...unlikely.
Sirius treated his memory of the wedding with utmost care. It was fragile and precious, both these things because Sirius knew that back then, he had been happy…on that night, he had been very happy.
A gold coin that could only be taken out and admired when the guards were far away, unlikely to see its glimmer in the dark. Sirius wouldn't lose it to them. He refused.
Remus was back from another moon spent with the wolves. He never returned with good news, only compromises and concerns, but Dumbledore kept sending him back, kept pressing upon them all the imperative of it- of winning over the 'dark creatures'- he had said that, he had said that in a room full of them all at an Order meeting, and Sirius had looked around and realized that he was the only one who had felt the sting of such words, the only one who had even noticed...
The only one, save Remus. Remus, the 'dark creature'.
(Sirius thought he had seen something break.)
Remus was back, Remus was returned to him, only he wasn't really, Sirius knew that. Remus curled in the bathroom, long limbs too weak even to contort with pain, retching feebly. He gripped at his own hair, surely hard enough to pull out strands, which was to say not very hard at all. Sirius was in the doorway. He felt like a banished thing- like there was a line across the threshold, marking where he could not step. He was as helpless before it as any beast before its bane. His gut was sick with something, something he didn't want to name, but he thought it was jealousy.
(Another full moon alone.)
"I can't go back there," Remus cried, making no attempt to wipe the tears from his mottled cheeks. "Not to him. I can't, I can't. God, Sirius…"
'Him'- Greyback. Sirius despised the name and all its implications. Remus' nails were longer and sharper than Sirius had ever seen them but he saw them now, saw how they clicked on the porcelain base of the toilet. He had always trimmed them short before, those claws of his.
"Please," Remus whispered, as though Sirius could do anything for him at all; that at least broke the spell on the doorway and Sirius was allowed in, allowed to kneel at his side, run a comforting hand down the bones that jutted from his back as he vomited again. What had he eaten that made him sick? Sirius felt suddenly ice-cold, he did not want to know.
"I don't want to be this way," Remus choked. "I don't, I don't, I don't."
Sirius kissed the thin hair atop his head, but there was nothing he could say to that. Any and all comforts died in his throat.
(He realized he was unbearably selfish.)
"It feels like we've been doing this forever," said James. The night was cold, the cigarette at his lips sparked in the dark, and Sirius turned away from the building they were watching to look at him.
"'This'?"
"The war," James clarified with a shrug. "Do you remember what it was like at school? We were so- I don't know- carefree, I guess."
"Young," Sirius supposed, but he had never really stopped feeling 'young'. He had felt good and bad, and big and small, in love and in hate- but he had never felt old. It was shocking to him, what James said. For Sirius, it didn't seem like very much time had passed at all.
"Yeah," James agreed, and he took another puff. "I couldn't imagine being responsible for someone else back then."
"No," Sirius agreed. "No, I still can't."
James' cryptic concerns were clarified by the end of the month; Lily was pregnant. The congratulations she received were wan. The mortality rate for Order members was high, too high- this was not the wedding, a moment of darkness in the light, how could it be? This was something that one could survive with never having had, but that would be too terrible to lose.
"I don't know what we'll do," Lily confided quietly at the end of the meeting. James had no answer for her, his question was the same; and so of course, how could Sirius say anything?
Sirius and Remus kissed in a languid way, their bodies clothed but entwined, a hidden away corner of an Order safehouse. Not alone- Moody was here also- but it had been too long. They always had separate tasks, and every time they returned from them Sirius was riled up and desperate and Remus was cracked. He seemed to become weaker all the time, like fabric left out in the sun, sapped of vitality. Death by a thousand cuts.
(Not death, Sirius insisted to himself, a private prayer: never death.)
They were quiet, aware of their own illicitness, Remus' back pressed to the wall and the only sound he would make were the softest of sighs and Sirius wished he could touch him everywhere all at once, could envelope him in his palms and tuck him away, small and warm and safe. A terrible fantasy- nothing and no one was safe, not anymore.
Remus had changed. Upon him were all the signs of mature lycanthropy- nails too long, too strong, too sharp, teeth that didn't entirely transfigure back from fangs when the full moon set, eyes permanently more yellow than blue. The hair on his head was all silver now, just like his fur, and though Sirius thought it was beautiful it was also obvious, was it not? Now, no one could look at him without thinking the word: werewolf.
When Remus slept that night, Sirius lay awake, watching, and he had an odd thought: Remus looked old. There were lines under and around his eyes that Sirius didn't remember seeing there, his skin was thin, silvery tissue paper liable for tear. When had this happened? Had it been happening all this time…?
Knowledge-memory, unbidden: the average lifespan of a male werewolf was ten to fifteen years post-turning. Sirius had read that once in a book. Suddenly, he felt deeply cold.
Sirius wrapped his arms around Remus' thin frame, pressed a kiss to the top of his head; Remus did not wake. His breathing was so soft it was easy to miss, easy to lose in the other night sounds. Sirius didn't want to cry, it wasn't like him.
Clunk. Clunk. Moody came up the stairs, his own room was opposite their own, oh, they had volunteered to share given that there were only two beds, young bones and all that, nothing more. Sirius heard him pause on the landing, and wondered if he was looking- using that frightening blue eye of his to see through the walls, to see the crime Sirius was committing here, loving a man, loving a werewolf- if he was, Sirius didn't care. He could look all he wanted.
What other people thought- that hardly mattered anymore.
On July 31st, in the middle of a thunderstorm, Sirius became a godfather.
The date flickered in his brain- the first important one in God knew how long. Lily gave birth in a safehouse, St Mungo's wasn't secure anymore, and a Muggle hospital, pfft, that would have been absurd. Sirius was there, downstairs, bracing James who paced the room and clasped his hands as though to pray, jolting at every noise that came from upstairs- but in the end, it went well, it even went quickly, and then before they knew it, there he was: Harry Potter.
Sirius was third to hold him, this little miracle bundle, he had never thought much of it before but by God yes, it was a miracle. Life had been made, a completely new one, it almost didn't seem possible- perhaps he cried a little because James clapped his back and everyone spoke only of good things, of how he looked like his father, of how he had his mother's eyes, of how lucky he would be to have such a fine family.
Harry was a serious little child, he did not cry much, almost as though he had sensed it- the fog that pressed down upon them. Almost as though he knew.
(It was so much harder to make a life than it was to take one.)
James led Sirius aside while Lily rested, her son in her arms.
"We're going to go into hiding," he said. "Lily's idea. I'm too wanted by the Death Eaters, and now with Harry…"
"I understand," Sirius said at once, and he did. "You should. Where will you go?"
James' mouth twisted, an attempt at a wry grin, the kind Sirius remembered on him from school, only something about it had gone wrong. He didn't seem to want to meet Sirius' eyes.
"We're going to do the Fidelius Charm," James told him. "Dumbledore will help with it."
"I see," said Sirius, but he didn't. He knew the spell, of course, and what it entailed- what was that uncertain expression then? Was James unsure if Sirius would accept the responsibility of being Secret Keeper? But of course he would, he would take on such a task in a heartbeat-
"We've decided that Peter will be the Secret Keeper," said James quietly, and Sirius was so shocked his mouth opened- a wordless expression, what? Something seemed misaligned, something didn't make sense-
"It's only that you would be too obvious," James explained, the words a touch rushed, their figures a touch rehearsed. "Everyone knows how close you are, and we didn't want to put you in danger that way."
"Oh," said Sirius, for that was all he could manage- he had a terrible thought: James was lying.
Quiet passed, a few too many beats, and then Sirius gathered himself again.
"No, that's a good idea," he said, distant words. "You're right, no one will suspect Peter- but he's very loyal. Little Wormtail. Ha."
James nodded, and yet he looked guilty. Sirius didn't understand, so he looked out the window. His godson, his greatest friends. He would do anything to protect them, didn't James know that…?
"I have to tell you something," James murmured, and Sirius looked back at him, mouth dry for James' tone had changed, had taken on something new, something terrible, blustering like the wind outside.
"You see, there's been this prophecy…"
It came out, then, at the next Order meeting: the real reason why Sirius had not been made Secret Keeper. Dumbledore said it out loud to a room of total silence, that which had become unavoidable, the conclusion no one wanted to reach and yet had to, for there could be no other explanation anymore: there was a traitor in their midst.
People were dead. So, so many people were dead- or worse. Plans had fallen through, the Enemy having predicted them impossibly well. The Order was losing, and had been losing steadily for a long time. They seemed like a dying spark, what would become a footnote in history, in the cold future placed upon the world by the Dark Lord.
Sirius sat in his chair and felt his body burn, felt as though a spotlight had been launched upon him, singeing his scalp and every other spot of bare skin. Black. He didn't need to hear anyone say it for the word to reverberate in his head, deafeningly loud there, like a scream right against his ear. Most of the members of the Order were not pure-blood, and those who were had other connections- like Lily to James- or were of low breeding. Sirius was not of low breeding. And his connections- well.
That James suspected him…or if not James than Lily, who Sirius had come to love as a sister…
Sirius knew he should look up, should meet the eyes of his comrades, but for some reason he could not. He stared at a knot in the wood by his feet and he felt like something unclean. He knew then that everyone could see them: all the rotting parts he had thought so well-hidden in his heart and gut and lungs, in organs kept secured behind skin. No, perhaps all this time it had been obvious that Sirius was diseased. It had been obvious that something was wrong with him.
Dismissed, everyone left quietly; there was no murmur of discussion amidst the members, everyone's hackles were raised, looking at their neighbours and their friends, fellow-soldiers; who has done it? Who would? There were gaps in this meeting, those dead but also those absent, on missions or in hiding…James and Lily were gone, spirited away, and Remus was working…Sirius had no one to turn to, no one whose eyes he could meet to plead innocence. He could not bear to leave with the rest, he waited in his chair with his elbows on his knees, bent. Only when they all had left could he even begin to imagine rising for his own coat. He felt his tail pressed ashamedly between his legs.
"Sirius." The worst thing happened- he was joined. Oh, but Sirius had forgotten he was here, this last great friend, this forgotten fellow Marauder. Peter had a kind face, a sympathetic face, and he hesitated not at all to touch Sirius' shoulder.
"How are you?" Peter asked, a gentle question, so surprisingly gentle Sirius just shook his head, too overwhelmed in the moment to even lie. Peter smiled a pained smile, his jaw clenched, his hand fell away. For a moment, there was an almost companionable kind of silence.
"I know you're not the traitor," Peter said simply. "I know."
…and Sirius sat up, took a great breath through his nose, reminded himself it did little good to cry, swallowed the heat in his eyes back down. It did little good to thank Peter, either, but for a moment Sirius wanted to.
"So some think I am?" Sirius asked when he could, and Peter shrugged a sad little shrug, as though ashamed to admit it, even though he had nothing to be ashamed of at all.
"They think you have the most to gain," Peter explained, a sickening confirmation of the logic Sirius himself had already traversed. "But you would never, I know that. I'll try to convince them. But, Sirius…"
...and now Peter hesitated, now he grit his teeth and shifted in his chair, the bearer of bad news. He had grown, Sirius thought, surprised; little Peter, good and loyal little Wormtail, he had gone and grown up. He had become a man, a good man, and could Sirius even say he had done the same…?
"I don't want to say this," Peter continued softly, a great pain on his face. "But I think- I think I should, you- you of all people should consider…"
"What is it?" Sirius asked, his own voice ragged with all these suppressed emotions, with the pain of all the wounds that had been done to him tonight. He wanted to hear what Peter had to say. In that moment, he trusted Peter implicitly, Peter who trusted him when the one he had thought his nearest and dearest friend, James, did not. That Peter looked like his words hurt him made Sirius only trust him all the more.
"You have to think about Remus," Peter admitted at last, his voice little more than a whisper.
"Remus?" Sirius echoed, and for a moment the hurt was suspended; for a moment he did not feel it and did not understand at all, did not realize that Peter had loaded a gun and shot him through the torso.
"The werewolves, they aren't-" Peter struggled. "They haven't moved over to our side at all, despite everything. The Dark Lord offers them too much, more than we or the Ministry ever could, you know that."
"But Remus," Sirius said numbly, the words like antiseptic on his tongue. "But he…"
Peter reached out and put one small hand on Sirius' knee.
"He's been with his own kind now," Peter told him quietly. "...he's not the boy we knew in school, not anymore."
Sirius stood with a violence that surprised him, leaping from that earnest touch like it had been a slap; but it was a slap, it was a gunshot wound, Sirius saw now that he was bleeding out onto the floor and the pain of this insinuation was unimaginable, Sirius hadn't realized he could even feel this way- and oh, he had been used to so many kinds of pain…
"He wouldn't," Sirius said, rushing for his coat, needing distance- not really from Peter, no, Peter didn't understand what he was saying, not in its entirety, he was only doing what he felt was his duty- he didn't know, he was innocent, but Sirius did know, and Sirius ran from the accusation, ran from it like it was his own guilt, even though he knew his shaking legs would never carry him far enough to escape it. "He wouldn't."
"He's not a dog, Sirius," Peter called after him, sad and firm. "He never was."
Sirius fled.
"This is the mission Dumbledore wants for me?" Sirius asked, voice tight with pretend incredulity, fists shaking in his pockets. Moody looked him up and down, the cursed eye whizzing around in his head, jaw jutting forward into an expression of disapproval. "This is all he thinks I can do?"
(Nothing- make-work- all this assignment could do would be to give them information they already had, pursue contacts they had already exhausted. Exercise for the errant dog. Sirius knew why, and Sirius felt sick.)
"We both know it's not about that," Moody told him, turning aside. "This is what Dumblore thinks you should do."
...and Sirius was left there to burn his instructions, and burn them he did, but what was the point? No one looked him in the eye anymore. Lily and James and little Harry were completely gone, Sirius hadn't seen them in months, Remus was being sent to the werewolves for longer and longer periods of time, he was alone. No one else who remained trusted him in the slightest.
Sirius wanted to scream. He didn't deserve it. Perhaps, he deserved a good many things- but not this.
Sirius went home and Remus was there, Remus was returned, his forehead pressed to the window-glass and the rain that fell against it. Thunderstorm. Sirius hadn't seen him in well over a month. He seemed to have lost weight, which should have been impossible, impossible that he would have anything more to lose- but in its place, on his bare forearms, there was a hint of new muscle. Running-muscle. When he turned Sirius saw his shirt unbuttoned and the bruises there, on his collarbones, on the long line of his neck, those bruises Sirius utterly hated.
"You're back," Sirius said, a dull greeting, Remus didn't even reply. "How did it go?"
Remus smiled at him but it wasn't a nice smile, not in the slightest, it looked sick- almost angry. His eyeteeth were fangs, they brushed his lower lip.
"As well as it ever does," Remus told him, some kind of scolding, as Sirius watched he scratched at his own arms absently, turned away to look back out the window. Sirius couldn't bear this. He hadn't heard word in a month. If Remus had returned crying Sirius would have buried these feelings, would have felt guilty, but he wasn't crying now- he looked hungry, and he looked like a carnivore. A snake coiled in Sirius' gut.
"What is it that you do, exactly?" Sirius asked, the words too loud for the walls of the apartment, they echoed there. Remus looked surprised- how dare he look surprised. "What is it that you do with them, the werewolves?"
Does Greyback fuck you?
…this last thing nearly made it past his lips. He thought Remus saw it there, anyway, heard it in the silence that followed.
"There's a spy in the Order," Sirius continued when Remus said nothing. "You know that, don't you? And surely you know that everyone thinks it's me."
Silence. Sirius didn't know what he wanted: wanted Remus to rush to tell him no, not you, you could never betray us, wanted Remus to start crying, wanted Remus to bare his fangs and snap at him like a rabid beast, maybe all of these things at once, maybe something else entirely. Sirius didn't know the shape of absolution. He couldn't think of a single way to make things well again. Silence. Sirius wanted to shout again, but he didn't know what to say. Silence. Remus' eyes were all yellow now, forever-yellow, and Sirius could see nothing inside of them at all.
"He's not the boy we knew," Peter had said. "He's been with his own kind now."
Not a dog, a wolf. A big, bad, beautiful, evil fucking wolf.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
"Greyback won't change allegiance," Remus said suddenly, his jaw stiff, the words mechanical. "There's no point in going back. Really, all this time…all this time he's been the one trying to change my mind."
"Were you ever tempted?" Sirius didn't know where the question came from, for it certainly hadn't been from him- he would never want to know the answer. He could see something in Remus' eyes now, some expression, the worst expression: guilt. No.
"Once."
Remus' head bowed, Sirius saw the long bow of his body tremble, his defiance and his aggression all broken.
Sirius turned and left the apartment, the way he had come, out into the rain. There, without looking back, he Apparated.
Sirius lifted his head despite the twinge in his stiff neck. He could barely feel his own face, nevermind his hands and feet, it had become so cold in here. He looked up through the bars of the cell, and he realized that he had forgotten. He had become good at marking the cycles of the guards, for the most part, he had learned how to avoid the worst of them- but something had slipped. He had forgotten. The Dementor before him breathed, and Sirius could see the outline of its foul mouth, appearing like a beak beneath the slip of dark hood.
Dread rose in his gut like bile. He didn't want to do it- he did not want to see it again, did not want to live through it all. The worst memory. They had paraded it before him plenty, especially early on in his sentence, before he'd learned how to avoid them…he'd seen it so many times then. He didn't know how many times more he could bear it before his mind broke, this memory, this very worst memory…
There came a deep and hungry rattling beneath the hood, and Sirius was powerless. No matter how much he feared it, it came for him anyway.
Sirius was in the hallway of the apartment complex. He had spent the night and day and night again drinking, pretending to do the false-mission he had been given, drinking again. He did not think he had eaten, he felt overdone, washed up. He did not want to come back here, but he had left something- now, it didn't seem to matter what.
(Don't go, Sirius thought, don't go in- don't make me see it again.)
The air smelled faintly of mildew, no matter, just another little layer to add on to his misery. A spy in the Order, and everyone thought it was him, and he had thought it was Remus- for a few minutes, perhaps for a full hour, he had really fucking thought it was Remus. Perhaps a part of him still did. He felt ashamed, so, so ashamed. He had left something at the apartment. Perhaps, it had been his dignity.
(Don't go in. You haven't the faintest clue what you're going to find.)
Sirius unlocked the door. He removed his boots and coat. He wondered if he was too loud, if he was not loud enough. He wondered if Remus was here- the apartment was quiet. Perhaps he was alone. Was that better, or worse?
(Not alone you're not alone, oh, God, hurry, you're not alone-)
There were his old dishes in the drying rack. The oils on the counter, the towel on the oven handle, the stains and the lightswitch and the smells. Nothing was out of place, save this: there was a letter on the table, an envelope sealed, and Sirius picked it up with curiosity and saw that it was addressed to him, one word only: Padfoot. The penmanship belonged to Remus, Sirius would recognize it anywhere, all the characters were precisely the same in form as they had been on the Map.
Sirius did not open the letter, he put it back on the table, he stretched his back so it clicked and he went to the bedroom, he went there to find what he had lost, or perhaps just to put up his feet…
(Sirius had never opened that letter.)
Open the door. Light switch, flicked on. The sheets were disturbed. Oh. Sirius had thought he was out. Sirius had thought himself alone-
-fractured, after this, Sirius lost time, didn't think straight-
-there was blood on the sheets, on the carpet. Remus was in bed. Remus. Moony.
Impressions of this remained only, and the Dementor pushed them into him, taking and transmitting as one. A barrage of it, this worst thing, this very, very worst thing.
He did not remember doing the magic, he had never thought himself good at it, at healing wounds- he did it anyway, wordless, a great pushing force that seemed to sizzle him from the inside out, blinding him briefly, pulling a vast seizing pain from his marrow. Seal them. He couldn't put the blood back inside, that was beyond him. Please. All thoughts had vanished from his mind but this one: please, please, please.
Let him not be too late.
Where had it come from? It seemed so sudden- but oh, no, it hadn't been, he should have seen it, he should have known, he had thought the worst of Remus but he should have thought instead of this- it had been growing all this time, right before his eyes, but Sirius had been blind, blind willfully, blind and selfish and egotistical and a fool, a bloody colossal fool-
Razorblade. The shimmer of it seemed too bright, it caught on Sirius' eyes where it sat, so prim, on the bedside table. The steel had been transfigured into silver. This knowledge was horror unimaginable: he had cut himself with silver.
…
The room was so cold it burned, and when it stopped burning Sirius couldn't even feel his own heartbeat anymore, couldn't feel anything, surely he was dying. In the dream before his eyes, Sirius reached out and felt for Remus' heart, and found it silent. Eyes closed, face pale, eyes never to open again, a final sleep to last forever. Dead, and dead, and dying. He was too late. Despair. This defeat, this tragedy, it was so complete Sirius didn't understand how the world could still be here, far less how he could- there was no joy and there never had been, there was no point to any of it, happiness had only ever been an illusion and there was nothing left, nothing at all, nothing to live for…
The rattling of the Dementor's breath settled, a sound of satisfaction. Sirius' face was wet with frozen tears, he had fallen upon himself, upon the hard stone floor. He felt the frigid presence drift away and he found himself able to breathe again, choked and unsteady gasps, he clutched at his chest to find his heartbeat, and it was erratic there. He was alone again.
No. Sirius forced himself to sit up, to breathe deep; it became harder and harder to do this every time, to pull himself back, but he had to, he had to. He had to remind himself: it was a lie. That last part was a lie, it hadn't happened like that, it hadn't- had it? No, no, the threads were snarled, he had to find the right one, had to bring himself back again…he knew he could, he knew it was here somewhere, he knew he was not mad…
Remus woke in St. Mungo's and Sirius kissed the back of his hand, the hand he'd been holding all this time, his thin fingers and jutting knuckles and even the claws, he didn't mind them, didn't care about what they meant, not anymore. There were no bandages about his wrists, they hadn't been necessary. The evidence that remained was hardly distinguishable from any of the other scars.
"Sirius," Remus said in a voice like death, and Sirius cried. He did not remember what he said; I'm sorry, certainly, I'm so so sorry, I was wrong, never do that again, please, never leave me, not like that…Remus, Moony, please…
In Azkaban, Sirius forced his head high, found outside his window the dim light of the room. There, he thought, with a pale, hollow imitation of triumph; there.
Remus had not gone where Sirius could not follow. The moon still shone in the sky.
Reason to keep living.
...
They were in a car, a charmed one, but Sirius still put his hands on the steering wheel and his feet on the pedals because he needed something to do, something to distract him from this silence. Rain fell upon the metal roof, splattering the glass windshield, and the wipers moved at overtime to clear the drops that remained, the sound of their motions a soft and rhythmic squeaking. All the little sounds. Among them, Sirius would have liked to hear Remus breathe, at least that, at least that if he didn't speak- but the rain was too loud and Remus was too silent, and so Sirius kept finding himself turning, taking his eyes from the road, the quiet making him too afraid to let his passenger out of sight. He thought that if he did that, if Remus slipped away from his awareness, something terrible would happen. Of course, it already had.
Remus did not sleep, though he could have, he sat in the lefthand seat with his too-long legs slightly buckled, chin resting on the back of one thin hand, the elbow balanced on the lip of the window. He did not fit in here, the car was not built for him- the world wasn't, either. He watched the road as it approached them, yellow eyes open and vacant, and he never seemed to blink and he never seemed to breathe, not for miles and miles and miles.
He had been discharged from St Mungo's that morning, after only two days in a ward- his cuts had healed, of course, there was no 'problem' there, and in the time elapsed his marrow had replenished his veins. It did not seem enough- it certainly wasn't enough. Sirius did not think it possible that the doctors had made Remus well again. All they had done was repair his body- the real wound was somewhere else.
Then, mercifully, after so long Sirius had begun to fear he would never say anything again:
"Where are we going?" Remus asked. His voice was ragged, as though he had screamed.
"A safehouse," Sirius told him, his fingers newly tight on the wheel, hoping his own voice sounded good, sounded right, whatever that meant. "Out in the country."
"Do we have a mission?"
Sirius looked away from the road, checking, impulsively scrutinizing, and though it would be wrong some part of him wished very much to be skilled at Legilimency.
"No," he replied at length. "No, no mission. We're gonna wait it out for a bit."
The way of this, he dared not say- Sirius had not thought of it in days, in his mind it didn't matter at all anymore, but the Order had a traitor still, and despite everything Sirius and Remus were the primary suspects. Moody knew of their relationship, apparently, he had discovered it, perhaps in some moment when Sirius had felt bold, had thought his actions would hold no consequences. A relationship, the word felt cursed, that which the Ministry declared illegal, for which St Mungo's prescribed, upon request, mind-altering potions as treatment…monthly doses, such a thing bore no permanent correction. Monthly. Once per moon.
"It'll be alright," Sirius told Remus impulsively, in a voice that sounded like a plea. "I love you. So much. Okay?"
(I haven't read the letter you wrote me.)
Sirius looked away from the road but Remus did not. The silence in the car stretched on, and Remus said nothing.
The paper dissolved into ash in Sirius' hands, drifting up into the deep gray of the night sky. An ember, a flicker, rising and then gone, dissipated. A thing that ate itself.
On that paper there had been a message- automatic, made and transported by magic, created and delivered when another spell broke. Who had cast such a charm? Who would? It had surely been complicated, its initiation depending on something that they had surely hoped would not happen at all- then, perhaps it had been Lily.
Sirius was smoking, with the end of his cigarette he had lit the paper, had sent it on its spiral into oblivion. He let the smoke pass from his lips in the same way, contrasted light against the starless sky until it too faded, quickly, easily. More fleeting than life, but not by much.
Sirius wondered where his feelings were.
Perhaps they hadn't arrived yet- perhaps what he had read was so destructive he needed time before it could fully sink in. Or perhaps instead they were waiting, circling about him like carrion birds, and when he was done with what he had to do they would swoop down upon him and tear his flesh from his bones.
For yes, Sirius had something to do.
Another drag of the cigarette, and Sirius heard the screen door close, did not hear the footsteps approach, soft and silent on the grass, bare feet that belonged to a carnivore. Sirius turned and saw Remus there, underdressed in an oversized gray sweatshirt, arms folded across his belly, and surely it was only that he was cold- it was Halloween, the frost had already set. He looked like he was holding his own organs in.
"What is it, Sirius?" Remus asked him, and he had always been frighteningly perceptive.
"Nothing," Sirius told him easily, and he snubbed out his cigarette in the frozen grass. "I have something to do."
"From Dumbledore?"
"No, not from Dumbledore."
Sirius couldn't tell him. Let him know when the vultures came for Sirius' carcass, for then perhaps he'd have a place to shelter, in the space left between the ribs of the dog. To tell him now would be too much- it wasn't done yet. Remus had ever been stronger than any of them, but the weights he'd been made to bear had been heavier also, God, so much heavier. He had become brittle. He'd broken. Sirius came close and kissed his mouth, the act strange only because it was so confident.
"Tell me," Remus murmured against him, but Sirius only smiled.
"I'm going to take my motorbike," he told him, laying the plan out loud. "You rest here, baby. I'll be back before you know it, I promise."
Another kiss. When this one broke Sirius turned away, steady feet headed for the garage, and Remus did not follow. Remus stood on the cold grass under the night sky, and his eyes glowed sadly, like a wolf.
What the message had said was this: the Fidelius Charm in Godric's Hollow had broken. Lily and James were dead.
I'm going to kill Peter Pettigrew.
Sirius smirked at the retreating back of the Minister, certain that his teeth were yellow, his face cracked with dirt- he probably looked like a madman. But that was true enough, wasn't it?
He did enjoy these political visits, they helped him mark the time. He could count the risings of the sun, of course, the full moons in the sky- he had once, once he had scratched them into the walls of his cell with the cuffs of his chains. When had he stopped, when had he forgotten? But this Minister was new, Sirius didn't recognize him. Perhaps it had even been his first time in Azkaban. Sirius certainly didn't think the last one would have brought in a newspaper, so very casual an item as that- and thought less that he would have handed it through the bars at a criminal's request.
Sirius was surprised at himself, surprised he had been able to do it- maybe the little man's bowler hat had been what had convinced him, green, so ugly and quotidienne, shocking Sirius' mind back to Ministry halls, offices, shopping centres. An institutional world of a very different kind from his own. He had practically been able to smell it on that man's skin, the neuroticism of normalcy...
Sirius' thoughts were drifting and he shook himself, doglike, scratched at the back of his neck where there might be fleas. He was spending a lot of time as a dog these days- more time like that than as a man. It helped. At least, he imagined it helped.
But this, what he held now- this was the territory of man, a newspaper, what a miraculous little thing. Sirius squinted at the headlines for a moment, his eyes bleared, unable to decipher the characters- had he forgotten how to do it? Strange, that the thought didn't really frighten him that much…
A few more blinks, and what Sirius' eyes focused on were- as though designed so by a curse- the date at the top of the front page. He didn't understand it- surely he read it wrong, he was confused- but that- but that-
1993? That meant-
Sirius put the paper down gently in the corner of his cell and bent his head, scratching at the back of his neck until the grimy skin there stung. He whined to himself, and then looked out the window: blue skies, a clear day, perfect day for the Minister to visit, the boat ride back would cheer him up along with the hot chocolate someone had surely packed-
-he'd been here for twelve years.
Only three or four, he'd thought. Five, at the longest, five so very, very long years…
After a long time had passed Sirius picked up the newspaper again and rifled through it. He did not want to read any words for fear of what they might tell him, but he did not want to surrender such a treasure as this one, no, he hadn't had anything so human in years, in twelve years, his brain skittered from the number.
Pictures, then, he looked at those. Column artists, smug with their glittering quills, Ministry news, ah, there he was, the little man in the bowler hat, somehow green even though it was gray…and oh, what was this, some family in a desert, they all looked alike and there were so many, wait, he knew, he knew the man, knew the woman too…older now...twelve years older now…when he'd seen her last she'd been pregnant...
...and there was something else, also.
The youngest boy had an animal on his shoulder.
Oh, no. Not an animal, no.
The image was so small, so surreal…and yet Sirius recognized him instantly.
There was no suspension of emotion this time.
Sirius didn't even have a word for this rage.
…
The paper burned, wordless magic, heart-magic, straight from the core. The smell of burning ink filled the cell, and Sirius looked back out the window, his lips peeled from his clenched teeth in a wordless and hateful snarl.
I'm going to kill Peter Pettigrew.
(Watch me- I'll do it for real this time.)
