Sirius was taken across the North Sea in a dinghy, his arms and legs and everything else tied to its bow so tightly he could hardly move. Across from him sat a large, rough-faced guard, frowning silently at him throughout the trip. Every once in a while, Sirius would twist around as far as he could to glance at the dark silhouette of Azkaban's tower as they approached; he could already feel the pull of the prison's Dementors on his soul, drowning him in despair and dread—or perhaps those feelings had already been inside him, growing stronger as the reality of his new circumstances slowly sunk in.
Sirius peered up at the half moon shining overhead, bathing the dinghy and the crests of the waves around them in silver. In a couple of weeks, Remus would be facing his first full moon without the Marauders in years. Oh, Remus…. How could Sirius ever have believed that Remus, the kindest and bravest person he'd ever known, would betray them to Voldemort? Sirius understood it now, understood how he'd loved Remus too much to cope with his withdrawal from him, how he'd directed his negative feelings towards the last person who deserved them, towards Remus himself…James had told him so many times that Remus was depressed—why hadn't Sirius been able to believe him? How could he have been so quick to turn on his Moony?
It's my fault you're alone now, Moons, he thought, feeling a tear slip down his cheek. It pained him to think of how Remus would react to the news of his friends' deaths and Sirius's false betrayal; the truth was terrible enough, but the lies Remus would be hearing were even worse. Remus couldn't spend the rest of his days believing them—he couldn't spend the rest of his days alone, shut off from the world like Sirius knew would happen. He would find his way back to him; he had to.
And Harry…Harry would be with the Dursleys now, going against everything James and Lily ever would have wished for their son. He would grow up with no real connection to his family and the wizarding world, or to the godfather he'd be raised to think was a murderer…. Sirius had to find his way back to him, too. It was the cruelest of ironies that Peter, of all the Marauders, was the most likely to actually get to know James's son. Not only that—Harry would be in danger as long as Peter was still around, and Sirius was the only one who knew enough to protect him.
He swiveled around in the boat once more to take in Azkaban and its island—they were close now, close enough that he could make out the shadowy figures of the Dementors circling the outer walls. He didn't have much longer until he would be among them.
"Tomorrow's my birthday, you know," he said suddenly to the guard across from him, surprising himself with his own words. "I'm turning twenty-two."
The guard grunted in response. "Stupid boy," he said, his voice as tough and hard as everything else about him. "That's a lot of years you've thrown away. You'll be in Azkaban for a good while—the young ones always take the longest to give out. You're going to wish you were dead long before your body lets you go."
Sirius gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He knew the guard was wrong: no matter how long he was in Azkaban or how savagely the Dementors feasted on his soul, he would never wish for his death. He had two reasons to stay alive, two people he'd do anything to live for, even if that meant enduring years and years of unspeakable horrors until he was able to find a way out.
I'm coming back for both of you, Sirius thought, his eyes once again fixed on the moon. As difficult as it was for him to believe, he knew it was the same moon as the one hanging over Remus and Harry thousands of worlds away. I promise.
