Chapter 5
'Moony! Moony! Moons!'
Remus looked up from his book as Sirius climbed through the portrait hole, jumping down and flinging himself over the back of the sofa, folding his ankles on top of the book on Remus' lap and smiling smugly at him.
Remus looked at him and raised his eyebrows. 'Yes Sirius? Do you need something?'
'Just making sure you don't forget I'm here,' Sirius grinned and swung his legs back underneath himself so he was kneeling, tipping forward, leaning his face towards Remus'...
Thunk!
Remus awoke with a start and smacked his elbow on his bedside table. For a minute he didn't know where he was. Heart pounding, he felt around for his wand and tapped the lamp on the bedside table, lighting it. The room illuminated and he stared around it trying to place himself.
He was at Hogwarts, yes. But it was 1993. He was here teaching - Defence Against the Dark Arts. There was his desk, his trunk, his piles of books. He ran through the list of facts. The things he knew to be real. He was here, he was fine. Everything was ok. Everyone was ok...
Except for James and Lily. And Peter. And Sirius. And him.
'Oh for fucks sake', he said out loud to himself. 'Its just the moon. Get a bloody grip.'
It was now almost the end of September. Remus' lessons had continued to go well, the preparation he put into them kept him busy and it paid off. He had been feeling better than he had in years - he supposed that good and regular meals would help with that, but maybe it was also something to do with the sturdy stone walls and the cheerful faces of the students in his classes. Remus had always wanted to feel purposeful and needed, and no one could argue that these kids didn't need some proper DADA education. The full moon was looming though, and had brought the dreams - nightmares?- back with it. Dumbledore had made some arrangement with Severus about wolfsbane potion, and he had been delivering it dutifully to Remus' office each evening. The stuff was foul, but Remus knew that Severus was more than capable of brewing it accurately and he was used to taking Dumbledore's word for it when it came to Severus' allegiances. Remus had tried the potion before, a couple of times when he'd had the money to get hold of it and the effects weren't more unpleasant than transforming and waking up torn to pieces, so he supposed he was grateful overall.
He looked at the clock. It was five-thirty. Not really too early to get up. He got out of bed and tapped the kettle with his wand on his way to the bathroom. When he emerged he made a cup of tea and took it over to his desk. He was preparing a lesson on hinky-punks for the third years and was looking forward to it, and he shuffled through the notes he had made. As he reached underneath a pile of papers for a relevant library book, something slipped off his desk and onto the floor. He ducked underneath the table to retrieve it and found himself, for the second time that morning, face to face with Sirius Black. It was the copy of the Prophet that he'd taken from Dumbledore's office, several weeks ago now, and had put here to.. ignore? To read later?
Remus picked up the paper and unfolded it gently, revealing the full photograph. It was Sirius' mug-shot, taken twelve years ago, as Remus had last seen him, except he was already dirty - his face streaked with grime. Remus wondered where it had come from: from the ministry cell? Or from the ruins of their house? From the alleyway where he had killed Peter and all those people? He brushed a thumb across it. Sirius' eyes were wild, and his teeth bared in what the reports had called a 'grin'. It wasn't, Remus thought. This wasn't his face full of triumph. This was despair, a kind of incredulous despair. He looked again at the photograph. He had seen it many many times, but had he ever actually looked? Now he had started, he couldn't stop: he examined Sirius' clothing - not much was visible, just the shoulders of what was probably his usual black t-shirt. There was a slightly charred section along the neck line, as if a spell had hit him there. His hair was a mess - the way it was when he woke up in the morning, more as if he had left in a rush than had it messed up later - and his eyes. At the very edges of his eyes, shimmering ever so slightly in the moving image, were tears.
Tears. Remus looked again, closer. There they were, almost indescernable, as if they had only just formed. He smoothed his hands over the paper, trying to get a closer look. They were definitely there.
He doesn't cry, Remus thought. He'd been famous for it, in their dormitory at least. It was an issue he had about showing weakness, something he'd learned as a child, in that house, his mother stood over him with her wand. Too stubborn to ever admit he was hurt. It had caused problems at school, and then afterwards. They'd had arguments about it - Remus desperate for Sirius to show he cared, do something that wasn't shutting down or fighting dirty. But here, in front of him, was photographic evidence that something had finally broken him. Maybe he had been so wicked all along and he was finally weeping about his years of deception being for nothing? Crying at the loss of his freedom? Remus was at a loss. Wrenching his eyes away from the photograph he began to read the article.
Notorious criminal Sirius Black remains on the run after his escape from Azkaban at the beginning of August. While sightings have been reported all over the country, the most recent suggest he is heading for Hogsmeade, possibly seeking magical assistance. Black is known for his fervent support of You-Know-Who during the last Wizarding War during which he was imprisoned for the murder of a former school friend (they haven't even bothered to remember Peter's name, Remus thought bitterly) and twelve muggles in a public display of magic. 'He was insane before, he can only be more insane now,' a Ministry representative said on Saturday. 'Insane and extremely dangerous. As the Minister said last month, it is imperative he is recaptured quickly, before he can murder anyone else.'
Remus sighed and skimmed the rest of the article, which continued in much the same vein. The Prophet wasn't know for measured and unbiased reporting or it's choice of reliable sources, but this article didn't really contain any information at all. How had he escaped? Was he on foot? Had he had help? Had something happened inside the prison to help him, or motivate him?
'What is your plan?' Remus said to the photo. 'Why now? What really happened? Why didn't you tell me?' He felt the paper crumpling in his fists and came back to himself. All this was futile, he knew it was, he had spent years afterwards trying to understand but everyone was dead or gone and no one had been forthcoming with answers. 'The political situation is precarious Remus... Heir to the House of Black... His mother... Their secret keeper... Harry is safe Remus, it has been taken care of....You need to be more concerned with yourself... He had us all fooled... Did he fool you? Or did you know?'
No he hadn't bloody known. And he didn't bloody know now. The clock on the wall chimed softly - it was seven. Where had all that time gone? His tea was cold and he poured it away, summoning his shoes to go down to breakfast and begin the day.