Chapter Twenty One

Days had passed. He was beginning to lose track of how many. He knew he shouldn't - he had so precious few of them left. A man sentenced to death - an animal sentenced to death - ought to know how long he had until he died. But the days just bled together, an endless miserable blur of grey, and he found more and more he was having trouble keeping one distinct from the next.

He felt like he had been here always, he felt like he would be here forever. But he wouldn't … just a few more weeks and - he should know the exact number. But he didn't.

At night time he would look up at the moon, watch it growing smaller until it dwindled away into nothing. And when he looked at the moon he knew how long he had. Every cell of him could feel how close or distant the full was whenever he looked at that pale, hateful presence in the night sky.

But once it sank in the sky and the miserable, grey light trickled into the black and the birds didn't sing to greet the dawn because there were no birds, he would forget again.

It was so hard to keep anything straight in his head, in here. The dementors were forever outside his door - he could hear their rasping, rattling, wheezing and - when they were close - he would lose all sense of everything, even himself. Everything that had been him, that had made him who he was, would be drained right from him - bleaching him out and leaving nothing but a hollow husk of pain.

...

He'd learned early on to never think of Sirius. The dementors loved it when he thought of Sirius. Just the briefest memory of his eyes, or his bark of a laugh, was enough to bring hordes of dementors to his door; greedy masses feasting on the joy he felt at having loved and having been loved in return, and taking it from him completely.

Once, when the loneliness had become almost too much to bear, he had traced tickling fingers across his own skin, closed his eyes and softly stroked his scars - remembering that treasured night together … Then the sudden flood of dementors at his door had almost caused him to pass out as they sucked and guzzled and drained those memories right out of him; leaving him weak and shaking on the floor, crying out with heartbreak.

After that, he had started to discipline his mind. Any slight hint of a thought of Siri … of better days, and he would divert his line of thinking towards something that could not hope to kindle any happiness inside of him. Anything to keep those creatures from his door.

...

He now sat on his mattress with his back pressed firm against the wall. The wall was rough and damp and the discomfort of it was helping keep him awake. His eyes burned and scratched with the effort of keeping them open.

But he didn't want to sleep. He couldn't control his mind when he slept … couldn't stop the happy memories from creeping in … but even in dreams, dementors could reach in and force all the goodness out of him; replacing his happy images with coldness and darkness, pain and emptiness.

Dreaming about Sirius caused pain too great to bear, and was followed by an aching loss so huge he didn't know how he managed to contain it inside his chest.

It was easier to stay awake.

...

He thought a lot about Peter, while he sat perfectly still for hours - his eyes wide and staring, his legs curled tight against his chest. Thinking about Peter made him angry: what he had done, how he had betrayed them, how he had got away with it … and then sold the two of them out in order to get his name in the paper.

Sometimes - as mild tempered as Remus usually was - the thought of Peter was enough to make his hands ball into fists and for them to tremble with fury.

And this was good. The anger was immeasurably better than the emptiness. It didn't drain him, the way the despair did. It enervated him, made him vibrate as he felt the rage pulse through him. It even kept him warm.

And the dementors could not take it from him. Because it was not happy. Because it did not make him feel good … it did not feed them, but it sustained him. When he was angry with Peter, he could remember who he was. His mind was clearer, less woolly. Being angry gave him some kind of sense of self back - and the pain of being here was almost bearable.

...

Once he had made the mistake of hoping Sirius had discovered the same trick ...but the immediate rasping outside his door, and the plunge in temperature, reminded him not to let his thoughts stray anywhere close to anything good. The S word was out of bounds.

It was a supreme twist of irony that - in here - Peter was safe. The rat, the traitor, the betrayer. Peter made things better; while everything that was truly good in the world made his existence in prison an unbearable agony.

But not even anger could keep him awake indefinitely.

...

After what seemed an eternity of staring at the opposite wall, his head began to nod, sinking towards his chest… He had no idea how long it had been since he last slept but weariness was starting to seep through his bones. His eyelashes felt like they had weights attached to them, dragging his lids closed - and his eyeballs scratched and screamed with dryness from the staring. Slowly ...slowly...he felt himself give up the fight for wakefulness.

He closed his eyes - just for a moment … and then a moment longer and just … he would open them in a minute… Without even meaning to, his body shifted and he lay down on the mattress. But just for a second - he would sit back up - in a moment - when he was…

And then he was gone, his thoughts lost all coherence and his mind slipped away - losing touch with where he was and what was happening; forgetting even the weariness and the cold and the death sentence hanging over head … all was lost to him.

And then the images crept in - unbidden.

...

The fire was crackling, bathing the whole room in its rosy glow. And Remus was warm - for the first time in … he didn't know how long, maybe forever, he wasn't fighting against the cold and he felt his whole body relax, luxuriating in the heat of the flames. And the walls were red and the mattress was soft and he was back in the air raid shelter and - just like he had the morning after the full moon - he became aware of a heavy arm wrapped tightly around him.

'Morning,' he heard Sirius say, sleepily - and then a soft kiss was planted on his naked shoulder - followed by more soft kisses trailing down his arm. He rolled over, and smiled up into grey eyes, before wrapping his arms around Sirius and pulling him down into a lingering, passionate kiss.

'This is madness,' he whispered.

'Then I'm happy to be mad.'

'I didn't know we could…'

'How long have you felt this way?' Sirius asked him, between hot kisses. His fingers were trailing their way across Remus' scars.

'Since always.'

'It's been always for me too…' and they stopped talking, stopping their mouths with kisses - pressing lips to lips and tender flesh. Gentle hands stroked and caressed - and Remus felt the sudden warm, familiar tug between his legs.

'I love you, Moony,' Sirius murmured - as his hand wandered south to deal with Remus' pressing need ...

And then something went wrong.

...

The fire flickered and then went out - as if water had been thrown over it, leaving nothing but ash and hissing soot. The room was cold and grey and instead of a loving hand giving him pleasure there was nothing but a sucking void. It was hard to breathe, he felt cold - inside his chest - like his lungs were freezing and his heart was empty and every breath was a struggle.

And Sirius' eyes were hard and cold. He thought Remus was the traitor. 'Who else could it be?' he asked, and there was hatred and disgust in his voice. 'You're a - a werewolf .' And then the aurors came and took him away and they didn't let him put any clothes on because an animal doesn't need clothes. And the toad witch was watching him, gloating over him - locked naked in a cell - pretending he couldn't understand her because he was nothing but a dumb beast. And the courtroom were laughing at him because he wasn't human enough to form words.

And he was taken away from Sirius. Dragged away from him in heavy chains. They cried out that they loved each other but then it meant nothing. In the end it meant nothing. Even love could not withstand Azkaban. Like the rats and the weeds and the stars … love did not live here.

...

They were separated, parted forever, and he would never see him again. Would be alone until he died. Alone and afraid and with no one to comfort him … and Sirius would be trapped here so long that he would eventually forget Remus, would forget they had ever been in love. And Remus would be nothing - his whole life would have been less than nothing.

Because without Sirius - without Sirius...

...

He jolted back awake, back into the grey, and heard the rasping, death rattle of eager breath outside his door. His dreaming had lured them here, and they were feasting on his memories of that treasured night, ripping it from him so that all he was left with was the cold emptiness of everything that had come after. He felt ice in his chest and the surge of pure despair and the painful memories threatened to overwhelm him, swamping him in sadness.

He had lost Sirius. He had lost Sirius . And they would never be together again.

...

He crawled off his mattress and stayed down on the ground, hunched on all fours - struggling to breathe as the pain and misery welled up inside of him until it was so large that he could no longer contain it. And then he cried out - a wordless, desperate sound of suffering.

He had lost Sirius.

He began to cry, choking and spluttering but still screaming out - trying to scream the misery out of himself. And all the while was aware of himself, on all fours, howling - like an animal. Like the wolf… and that made it even harder for him to bear.

To be reduced to this. To be exactly what they always thought of him, what he always feared he was. And to be so lacking in control that he could not stop himself. Shame added to the misery, low and hurting and making him hate himself more than he had ever hated anything.

What would the toad witch say if she could see him now? What would they all say? Even Sirius would be ashamed of him. Even James would have to look away in embarrassment for him. How everyone from that courtroom would laugh at him - like they had when he had been struck dumb; the beast; the animal; the halfbreed - howling in agony on all fours, proving he had never been human at all.

...

He felt a pain in his heart, a sliver of glass plunging in like a dagger; cutting him, shredding him to pieces and after a while he didn't know if he cried because he was in physical pain, or because he was ashamed, or because he was afraid to die, or because he had nothing left to live for, or because of everything he had lost: hope and love and warmth and colour; the birds singing; the stars shining; the taste of ice cold pumpkin juice on a hot day. And Sirius. He had lost Sirius .

But whatever it was making him scream out in pain - he could not stop.

...

And throughout it all, the wheezing, sucking of air from outside his door told him the dementors were just outside - having a feeding frenzy with his suffering.


Far away from all that real misery, Peter was creating imagined misery of his own; counting his grievances and feeling utterly sorry for himself. He was still stewing about his loss of importance and his fast receding fame and the fact that no one seemed to care about what he had to say any more.

Over a week had passed now and not once had his name appeared in the paper. For the past two days he had not had any kind gifts arrive in the owl post. He was fast running out of sponge cakes, and the ones he had were increasingly stale and at this rate he could not expect to receive any more any time soon.

The Prophet was full - cover to cover - with the trial of Barty Crouch Jr and his Death Eater pals. Or uncovering scandals in the Crouch household, trying to work out why this straight O student from a good, wizarding home had gone so badly off the rails. It was all anybody was talking about.

It was like Moony and Padfoot had never even existed, like the entire wizarding world had not been gripped for over two weeks wondering about where these two dark wizards on the run had taken the Potter boy to.

Now all anyone cared about was Crouch.

Even the fact that one of the Death Eaters he was arrested with, Bellatrix Lestrange, was Sirius' first cousin only earned Padfoot a brief name-check in the article. Moony wasn't even mentioned by name - and only in reference to being the werewolf arrested at the same time as Black. And Peter - brave, little Peter - the people's hero, the symbol of national grief - a nation in mourning - a world having to rebuild from the ashes, wasn't mentioned at all.

No wonder the cakes were drying up.

He needed to do something, was desperate to do something … but what?

...

He thought of little else over the next few days. It was the first thing he thought of when he woke up in the morning and the last thing he thought of before he went to sleep at night. He thought of it all through the day, as he stamped portkey request forms and filed them away, and as he had after work drinks at The Leaky Cauldron, and as he shopped in Diagon Alley (where no one gave him anything for free any more), and as he ate his tea in front of the fire … The whole time he kept turning that same problem over and over in his head. How could he make himself relevant again? How could he get his name in the paper? How could he regain his fame and appease his appetite for all the perks it brought into his life?

...

The trouble, he thought savagely, as he bit into his bangers and mash that evening, was that Moony and Padfoot had finally run their course. Oh there may be a bit of excitement - a small flurry - when the full moon was closer and poor Remus would get his head chopped off. Perhaps there might be a small glimmer of hope that Peter might be asked for a quote after Moony's execution … but that was one and done. The werewolf could not die more than once, and once he was dead ...that was it.

He needed something bigger and better and longer lasting than the putting down of a dangerous beast who happened to sometimes look human and who he, Peter, had happened to share a dormitory with for seven years. Even to his fame greedy eyes, his own link to that particular news was tenuous at best.

He needed something bigger and better than Moony and Padfoot altogether. They were a busted flush. Yesterday's news, as Rita Skeeter had put it.

...

But what did he have beyond being the betrayed best friend of the two villainous traitors? Well … he was also the grieving best friend of the noble and heroic Potters - but Prongs and Lily were dead and so no good for him from that quarter. If he could no longer milk his connection to two living (for now - in the case of Moony) Death Eaters, then he couldn't imagine what use two dead heroes were to him…

Dead Potters meant nothing any more.

...

He cut into his sausage and piled the mash up on the fork around it, before popping it in his mouth, chewing greedily until a sudden thought made him nearly choke...

Dead Potters meant nothing. But - they weren't all dead were they? And as long as he lived - little Harry, the boy who defeated the Dark Lord, would never be yesterday's news. And now here he was, sent to live with muggles and tragically separated from his doting Uncle Peter - the only real family he had left.

Now that - that - was a connection he could milk.

...

Abandoning his meal, Peter pushed his plate to the side and instead reached for his quill and parchment as an idea began to form in his brain.

Dear Rita,

...

He wrote.

...

There is something I need to do - that dear James and Lily would expect me to do. And I expect your readers would love to hear all about it. I would, of course, be more than willing to give you exclusive access to the story … This, my dear Rita, will be the story of your career …


Locked high in his tower, Sirius sat hunched up; his knees were pulled to his chest, his elbows rested on his knees, his hands were balled into fists and the heels of his palms were driving into his eyes - as if trying to stop himself from seeing all the terrible things he was imagining.

He wanted to cover his ears - but he knew he couldn't, he mustn't. This was his punishment - listening to that … but God how he wanted to block out the sound of Moony screaming in agony.

Even up here, he could hear it. And even from this distance he knew it was his Remus. Even though there were no words - even though it was just one loud, long holler of pain; animal in its suffering - he knew without a doubt which of the prisoners it was crying out.

He would know Moony's voice anywhere. Though, god, he had never heard it sound like this before.

...

But still - for all it cut into him - he made himself listen, because this was his punishment. To hear all that pain and know it was his fault and there was nothing he could do to help and that it would only stop when …

Merlin - for all he couldn't bear the sound of Remus' grief, he could bear even less the thought of the day when it would stop. When he would hear it no more…

...

This was all his fault. Remus was only here because Sirius had asked him to run away with him. He was locked in prison, waiting to be murdered by the State, put down as a dangerous beast, because Sirius was too selfish to run away by himself.

The thought of Moony believing him to be the spy, of him hating him, had been too much to bear and so - like a coward - he had made things easier for himself, and put Remus in this dreadful position.

And now Remus was going to die - and his last few weeks of life would be spent in abject loneliness and misery … and that was all Sirius' fault.

...

And that wasn't all Sirius was guilty of. It was his fault James and Lily were dead too. Because he had suspected Remus, because he couldn't see the traitorous rat sitting right under his nose… his best friend was dead. He remembered Prongs lying there, still and glassy eyed, half buried in the rubble.

Sirius deserved to be in Azkaban. He didn't doubt that for a minute. So many mistakes - made only by him. So many ruined lives. Of course his life should be ruined too. And listening to Moony yell out the pain he couldn't keep inside of himself was his own personal, special form of punishment.

...

Because the dementors weren't too bad. He could handle them. Knowing he wasn't guilty of the things they said he had done, knowing he wasn't a Death Eater, kept him from losing his mind completely. It gave him something to focus on - his innocence - but it didn't make him happy, so the dementors couldn't take it.

And because he could have thoughts that weren't painful, he was able to keep some semblance of self. He wasn't being as drained of his powers as everyone else in here was.

Without a wand, he could never hope to drive away all the dementors of Azkaban, but what he could do was transform into Padfoot. He still had enough magic left for that.

...

As a dog, his emotions were simpler, his thoughts less complex and everything was easier to bear. The fur even kept him warm in this freezing tower. As Padfoot he could get a decent night's sleep and not have to worry about the dreams - whether nightmares to haunt him or happy dreams for the dementors to suck out of him in a feeding frenzy. The dementors did not seem to be able to touch doggy dreams… they were probably too incoherent - all instinct and no emotion.

So - whenever it all became too much for him, the pain too much to bear - he would transform and settle down and get some sleep.

...

There had been one moment - a few days ago - where he had thought his secret would be discovered, and a closer guard would be kept… when he had fallen asleep as Padfoot, all curled up, his nose tucked into his tail, only to be woken up when the door opened and the guards brought in his food.

He thought for sure they would be angry when they saw him, would take steps to stop him from transforming again … but nothing happened. The dementor just deposited the food and then drifted out, slamming the door shut behind it.

And Sirius had understood. Dementors couldn't see. They mustn't have eyes under those great, black hoods of theirs. They just found their way around by sensing the emotions of humans. That dementor had not seen the dog and - if it had realised the prisoner's emotions were not as complex as a human's should be - had simply put it down to Sirius losing his mind … like all the rest of them.

And - knowing he was safe - Sirius had started spending whole days as Padfoot. He could see out his whole life this way. It wasn't a good life but it certainly wasn't unbearable. He could survive this place as Padfoot - beat the system - and he intended to do so.

...

That was, he intended to do so until Moony had started to scream.

...

And then he had transformed back - and felt ashamed. Because Moony could not transform the pain away, did not have the luxury of living in a form that came with simpler emotions. He was trapped in his human body, with his human pain until the night when …

Sirius couldn't even finish the thought.

But it was true - the first time in weeks that Remus wouldn't hurt like this would be the night they killed him. And then he would never hurt again but … That was of no comfort to Sirius and he doubted it was any comfort to Remus.

...

Remus was screaming because the pain was too much to bear - and here Sirius was, taking advantage of his being an animagus. He was only an animagus because of Moony. Moony was only in here because of him.

So he had transformed back. As long as … as long as Remus was still alive then Sirius would force himself to maintain his human form - no matter how unbearable the pain. He could not make his own suffering easier when Remus had no choice but to feel the full force of it.

Once Remus was … once he was gone, then Sirius would transform into Padfoot and never be human again. There would be no point. Sirius would die when Remus did - and Padfoot would live out his days pining for Moony. But until that night, he was going to remain human and suffer the same way that everyone else trapped in this grey cage of hell suffered.

...

And so he sat in his cell, high in his tower, all hunched up with his palms digging into his eye sockets and made himself listen to Remus' pain … and cried until he shook at the thought of the day that screaming would be silenced forever.


Remus had no idea how long he stayed this way, on all fours like an animal, screaming out his torment. But he screamed until his throat was sore and his voice was gone. He cried until there were no tears left inside of him, until his whole body was aching from the wracking sobs … Until eventually, after a very long time of unbearable pain and sadness, the horrendous agony faded back into a muted, grey numbness and he was able to crawl back onto his mattress and sit up; pressed firmly against the wall so the discomfort would keep him awake.

And then - very deliberately - he turned his mind away from his dream, away from Si … and instead thought only of Peter.