Sirius
The world Sirius Black returns to after Azkaban is worse than the world before it. Excepting, of course, that the War is over—all thanks to Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.
When Sirius first asks after Harry, Dumbledore assures him that Harry is safe and cared for, and that they can talk about it more once Sirius has gotten himself sorted out. Reassured, Sirius does not ask anything further, and allows himself to be admitted to St. Mungo’s. Harry should not see him like this, Sirius reasons, and besides, that’s a lot to explain to a small child, who should be growing up happy and healthy and loved, without knowing about the horrors of the world like dementors and miscarriages of justice. So Sirius focuses on getting better, and waits for Remus to visit him.
Remus, Sirius figures, would have heard about everything, and would be able to tell him everything he missed. He would be able to explain what had happened to the Longbottoms—the healers won’t tell him yet, but he thinks he caught sight of Frank while being led to his room—and their son who was Harry’s age, and where was Harry, then, if not with Alice? And besides, even if he didn’t have all the answers, Moony always made everything better, and whenever the healers told him to think of a happy memory instead of the image of James lying dead on the ground, or Harry screaming over his mother’s corpse—well, Sirius just remembers his and Moony’s first kiss, tipsy and elated at James and Lily’s engagement party; or the look of wonder and hope on Moony’s face when they showed him their animagus forms; or the way Moony looked when he was thinking up a clever prank.
But Moony never shows up, and that is why Sirius thinks sometimes that the world he returns to after Azkaban is worse than the one before it, because he is haunted by the idea that perhaps this is not only a world without James and Lily, but it is also a world without Remus. When the healers ask him to think of something happy, images of Moony smiling become images of Moony returning from a mission, smelling of the wild and other men, scars and bruises Sirius doesn’t recognise; they become the memory of Remus, arriving at the flat sometime while Sirius was out, collapsed on the couch, unable to make it to his room or heal himself properly after a moon no one was at, because they didn’t know where Remus was.
Many things could have taken Remus, Sirius knows. A bad moon, a bad wizard, a dark creature or artefact Remus was paid to take care of. It does not quite cross his mind that perhaps Remus is alive, and simply does not want to see him, until he wakes up from another memory-turned-nightmare, where Sirius is yelling and yelling and yelling, saying all these things he means but doesn’t, and Remus, too furious to acknowledge the tears on his face, packs up his things and leaves.
Had Sirius ever apologised for that terrible night, that break up filled with accusations Sirius only half-meant? Had they even been together romantically? Had Remus loved him? Sirius can’t remember; he can’t remember seeing Remus again after that night, but he also can’t remember much of Remus before, either, only some snippets; Remus slipping out of bed while Sirius pretended to be asleep; Remus stirring with a frown on his face while Sirius pressed a tender kiss to his forehead before leaving on a mission; Remus coming home after weeks of being who-knows-where, refusing to say a word to Sirius but pressing him against the wall, then the couch, then leaving Sirius spent and shaking still in their living room while he slipped into the bathroom to shower. Had there been love there, at all, or just that ache in Sirius’ chest he still remembers, that desperate longing he has had since fifth year, that knowledge that he would do anything for Moony, if only he asked?
Is it better, Sirius muses late at night, awake from another nightmare, if he and Moony had been in love, and Sirius had ruined it, or is it better if they hadn’t, and Sirius had just allowed Remus to crush his heart in his hands until he had retaliated tenfold? Is it better to be in a world where Moony is gone, just like James and Lily, or a world where Moony is alive, but wants nothing to do with him?
Still, no matter what world Sirius has returned to, with or without Remus, Sirius must stay optimistic. That’s what the healers say, to focus on the good. He has spent five years remembering the bad, so now it’s time to remember the good. Write a list, they suggest, so Sirius does. He writes that he’s alive, that Peter is in Azkaban where he belongs, that Voldemort is gone and the War is over, that Harry is healthy and happy and cared for and he will see him soon, and that—that—that—
He blinks, and the healers are hurriedly putting out the fire in his hands and pulling him away from the charred parchment. (He’s not allowed his wand, just yet, but that doesn’t stop him from performing magic in-between moments of consciousness.)
“The list didn’t work,” Sirius tells the healer in charge of him the next day, dully looking out the single window in the small room. It’s raining, which Sirius didn’t used to mind, having grown up in London, but now he finds himself wishing for just a bit of sunlight.
“Well, perhaps you were focused on the future; why don’t we focus on the present?”
“The present?” Sirius scoffs, throwing himself out of his chair and pacing, “the present, where I’m not locked up in Azkaban but I’m stuck in this fucking hospital, where there are no Dementors except the ones in my mind, that appear in my sleep and when I blink, just waiting for the darkness to come? The present, where my best friend, my brother , is dead, and so is my sister Lily, and Peter was the one who got them killed, and Remus—Remus—“ Sirius collapses back into his chair. There are tears on his cheeks, though he can’t remember when he started crying.
“Harry is still alive, is he not?” The healer—Jones, his name was, a short, stocky man with a kind face—reminds him.
“Prob’ly doesn’t remember me anymore. Don’t know where he is,” Sirius croaks, “Don’ know who’s taking care of him. What happened to Frank and Alice?”
“Frank and Alice are here at St. Mungo’s, in the same ward as you, actually. Once you’re more stable, we’ve thought about having group sessions, so maybe you can help each other recover… a bit.”
“But why are they here?”
“Let’s not talk about them just yet. Can you tell me about your godson Harry?”
“Harry…” Sirius blinks rapidly, clearing his vision. “Harry had to watch… he was crying—screaming—that awful scar on his forehead where the curse must’ve rebounded… Brilliant witch Lily— was —she saved him, but he had to…”
“How old was he, when you last saw him?”
“15 months… Just learning to walk and talk…”
“Could he say your name?”
“A bit… Right before they went into hiding, and I couldn’t see them quite as much—they started hiding right before his first birthday, and I only got to see them a few times after… Wasn’t even able to celebrate his birthday with him and his parents… his first birthday… the only one with his parents still… alive…”
“What did Harry call you, if he couldn’t say ‘Sirius’?”
“Called me Pads, or Paddy…”
“Paddy...?”
“Lily used to joke, that I was steps away from being called Papa, and James sometimes called me Paddy-daddy… Wanted to be the best godfather ever… Wasn’t ever gonna have kids, anyway, so Harry was the closest I was ever going to get.”
“Why Pads or Paddy? Because it sounds like Pa and Daddy?”
“No—no, we… That’s my nickname. Well, Padfoot is. My nickname… Padfoot. James was Prongs, Remus Moony, and Wormtail… Wormtail,” he spat, “we should’ve known he was the rat, that cowardly, talentless, good-for-nothing—“
“Was Pettigrew’s nickname Wormtail?”
“Yes, on account of him being a fucking rat!” Sirius snarls, hands curling into claws, remembering that awful, awful moment of clarity, watching a rat scamper away from the garden of the Potter house, wand in his mouth—remembering that flash of hatred, and handing over Harry to Hagrid and telling him to take the bike, remembering the chase… catching Wormtail on the crowded street, blind with rage and grief, wand out in front of muggles, screaming nonsense—remembering the bang, and the fingers, and Peter’s disappearance, and the Aurors descending on him, grabbing him, arresting him for murdering those innocent people, for murdering Pettigrew even when he wasn’t dead—
“—Sirius!” Healer Jones’ shout snaps Sirius from the memory. “Sirius… are you back with us?”
“Yeah… yeah…” Sirius sinks back down into his seat.
“Let’s pause for now, shall we? I just want you to think about happy times, Sirius, as homework. Then when we meet again tomorrow, I want you to tell me about it. Maybe some time during your childhood, before the war? You can tell me about your school days at Hogwarts; my younger sister had been in school same time as you, she said you had quite the personality as a child. Seemed to recall you and James Potter being friends from the start.”
Yes… Yes, they had been, hadn’t they? Sirius sits, musing, as the healer leaves him in the little room they take him to for his sessions. He and James had been inseparable from the first night they met; Sirius, giddy with the feeling of freedom and the rush of being a Gryffindor, and James standing atop his newly-claimed bed, declaring that they would be the kings of the school, that the other three of them need only follow his lead, and he’d bring them to glory. Sirius had scoffed, and challenged his lead, and after a playful tussle, James had allowed for the two of them to be equals. Peter had only been all too eager to follow them, knowing even then that he wasn’t cut out to be anything more than a mindless follower—and Remus had retreated behind his bed curtains before James and Sirius had even finished their wrestling, though they all knew he had been listening fervently.
They had been so young… Only eleven, but a decade later nothing had changed, much; Sirius and James, still attached at the hip, still equals, still brothers; Remus, yearning to be a part of the group but resisting, needing to be pulled in and enticed and convinced he was loved, which James and Sirius were always all too happy to do (albeit in different ways); and Peter, quiet, unassuming, always happy to do as he was told… Until, Sirius supposes, he was told to give up his life for the cause, for James and Lily—until it appeared that James was not leading them to victory, but perhaps to death.
How ironic, then, that Sirius was still living, when he had always gladly tied his fate to James’.
The days move on like this: Sirius wakes, is fed hospital food, then sent to speak with Healer Jones or set some cognitive task like a puzzle, or wizards chess, then sent back to have lunch. After lunch, a walk around the ward and a series of tests, from physical ones like seeing if he can lift a book without shaking to magical ones like checking to see how volatile his magic is. Then dinner, then time to do his homework for the day, which is usually journalling or reminiscing or generally trying to keep the dementors at bay. Sometimes, if he has the parchment and the bravery to, he writes to Remus, asking him to visit. He sends none of them; he’s too afraid, that they’ll tell him Remus is gone, or that he isn’t but doesn’t want to see him, or that he’s alive but unable to see him, like the Longbottoms—in St. Mungo’s—or Mary—obliviated by her own hand, according to McGonagall.
Some days, Sirius gets visits; in the beginning, he had so many visitors that they had to ask him, does he know this person, claims to have been at Hogwarts with him? or that person, from the Ministry? None of the names were friendly or familiar, and after his mother Walburga Black was let in—she had demanded, and is technically his blood relative—after he had them remove her from the premises and spent days reliving his childhood in a panic-induced stupor, Sirius asked Dumbledore to write a list of possible visitors, trusting that he will know who is still able and on their side. (Not that there are sides, now, what with the war over…)
The healers say friends and familiar faces would be good for him, people who can tell him about happy memories they share or correct the bad ones that the dementors have twisted; but the only one who can do that is currently in Azkaban for having helped kill the other two, and if Sirius ever sees him again he will commit the murder he had been sent to Azkaban for. And Remus… well, after a while, Sirius accepts that Remus is—gone, or will never come, and Sirius isn’t sure which one is more painful to him.
Instead of Moony, or any of Sirius’ now-dead or Death Eater friends from Hogwarts, Sirius gets visits from Professor McGonagall, who graciously allows Sirius to call her Minerva. It’s not quite the same, and in the beginning Sirius is almost too afraid to reminisce, but after her third visit—always on the weekends, when she isn’t on duty at Hogwarts—Sirius finds himself asking her about his school years and the pranks they played as children, asking, “did this really happen?” and “did you know that was us?” and “the detention you gave us for that—was that the one cleaning the trophy room?” She answers all his questions with her usual brusqueness, looking appropriately disappointed at each and every one of his misdeeds, but there’s a ghost of a smile on her face, and a nostalgic glint in her eyes. “Be honest with me, Minerva, you miss us as students,” Sirius says, “Hogwarts is boring without us in it.”
“James said that same thing to me during your first Order meeting,” Minerva says instead of answering, “do you remember that?”
If seventeen-year-old Sirius had been told that one day Minerva McGonagall was not only his friend, but the person who knew him best and longest, Sirius would have called that absolute bollocks and declared that the reason why divination was rubbish. And then he would have used it in his fruitless endeavour to flirt with Professor McGonagall until she stopped giving him detention.
Eventually, Sirius is deemed stable enough—or perhaps he merely asks one too many times—to be told what happened to the Longbottoms. He doesn’t quite remember what happens after that, only he wakes to find himself magically restrained and the room trashed. He spends an unknown amount of time laughing at his predicament, then another few moments trying desperately to have the healers understand that he is nothing like his cousin, nothing, she’s fucking crazy, and cruel, and enjoys that shit, she always had, she had laughed once when he was punished in front of the family, even offered to perform the curse for his mother…—but he isn’t like that, he would never, never, you must understand, the Longbottoms were my friends —
A few days later, he asks what the damage was, asks to see them, promises not to do anything untoward.
“You’ve been saying it would be good, to see familiar faces, friends, people who I have good memories with. I don’t… There’s not really anyone left, for me, but them. They may not be able to reminisce with me, but we can try…”
Healer Jones nods and agrees. He gives Sirius a few ground rules; ways to behave, things to say or not to say, and once Sirius shows he understands, he’s allowed to see them, to talk with them, to hold Frank’s hand and ask if he remembers Auror training, to pat Alice on her shoulder and tell her about her joint baby shower with Lily, the way the two of them—both pregnant at the same time, both fierce fighters in the Order—would waddle into Order meetings, glaring at their hovering husbands.
“You had such a life to you, Alice…” Sirius cries, “You used to whisk Lily away for girls days with Marlene, Dorcas, and Mary… Said Lily was spending too much time with us boys, that we would never understand the gift of life like you had. Harry and Neville were supposed to grow up like brothers, like twins.” Alice smiles at him beatifically and pats his face.
“And Frank…” Frank does not react to the sound of his name, but turns his face to Sirius’ when he squeezes Frank’s hand. “You were one of the best Aurors… James and I were so lucky to have you and Moody training us. We were sorry when we had to stop our training early, but the war called… You understand… or, well, understood…”
They let Sirius ramble like that for a few hours, and then the healers tell him it’s time to go. Sirius sobs again, after they leave—or perhaps he had never stopped?—and asks if there’s anything to be done.
“We’re… uncertain,” the Longbottom’s head healer says, “we’ve never seen a case like this. The prolonged exposure to an Unforgivable… the torture… that kind of pain—it does something to you.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t typically—I mean, that—“ Sirius gestures weakly, “I’ve felt the cruciatus curse before, for quite a while—“
“Hours, though, Mr. Black—“
“Please don’t call me that—“
“Oh, yes, apologies, that is in your file, I meant Sirius—“
“’S okay. I just…” Sirius laughs dryly, “most of the times I felt the cruciatus was at the hands of a Black. Usually my mother.”
“I’m sorry… I can’t even imagine—“
“No, and you should be glad you can’t. It’s excruciating, and worse if the caster really means it. Means for you to feel pain.”
“We believe they made them watch—each other, I mean. Some believe they even made their baby watch. That would break any man—their mind, their spirit, their bodies.”
“Yes, it would…” Sirius shivered, phantom pain tingling through his bones, remembering Bellatrix’s cackle, her whispered offer to do it herself…
“Some days are better than others, for them,” the healer continues, and Sirius returns to her, “there are some days they know their names, know what we’re saying, are responsive. Then other days… There’s just no one there. You’ve been tremendously helpful today, even though I know it was hard for you. To be honest, their treatment and yours aren’t awfully different; a need for routine, constant monitoring, familiar faces and people to reminisce with them, remind them of who they were. It’s why you were moved to this ward instead of staying at magical creatures on the first floor. Of course, you are in a much better state than they—we don’t particularly have any hope of recovery for them. Perhaps they’ll get a bit better, but for the most part… They’re here to stay.”
“And their family…”
“Frank’s mother comes in, and occasionally some other of their family—it’s been five years, though, and most often now it is only her. She brings their boy in with some regularity, maybe twice or so a year—but it’s unclear how much he understands, or if it’s even good for him.”
“Neville… He’s six, now?”
“Yes… and he doesn’t seem to remember the incident, thank Merlin, he was still too young.”
Too young; the Longbottoms were tortured right after James and Lily had died, so Neville wasn’t much older than Harry had been… While being forced to watch as your parents were tortured to insanity is a horrible, terrible thing, so is watching your mother be murdered in front of your eyes, and watch as her murderer raised his wand against you too. But if Neville doesn’t remember it, was too young to truly comprehend it, then maybe Harry doesn’t remember either. Maybe Harry is being raised a happy, healthy boy, and being taken care of by a loving family.
If only Dumbledore would tell him who that family is.
When they finally release him, he’s given some clothes (not his; Sirius wonders briefly what had happened to his favourite leather jacket), returned his wand, and told that his flat has been prepared for him. There is still no sign of Remus, but Sirius has accepted that already. Minerva offers to go with him to Diagon Alley to buy clothes and other necessities, and so Sirius is spared the pain of entering an empty flat filled with memories until he has been properly exhausted, what with the shopping and the sights and the sounds—not to mention the stares and the whispers, and the few brave souls who approach him to shake his hand and ask invasive questions or claim they’d always known he was innocent.
Sirius asks McGonagall about Harry, and she tells him she will talk to Dumbledore this week, but either way she is willing to take him to see the boy next Sunday, having been there when Dumbledore and Hagrid dropped him off. “With family,” Minerva says, and before Sirius can ask What family?, a wizard interrupts them to ask for Sirius’ autograph, which he denies.
They run into Arthur Weasley outside Eeylops Owl Emporium, and Sirius eagerly thanks him for his help in apprehending Pettigrew.
“Well, it wasn’t me, really, more my boy Charlie and my wife Molly,” Arthur admits, shaking his hand with a sheepish grin, “I just let Percy keep a Dark wizard disguised as a pet rat—some protection I’ve been able to provide my family.”
“Animagi are extremely hard to detect if you’re not looking, Arthur, no one blames you,” Minerva assures, and Arthur smiles gratefully; Sirius wonders if she’d taught him and his wife transfiguration.
“In fact, I’d like to thank you and your family, repay you, in some way,” Sirius says, “Your wife and Charlie especially; even Percy, who I’m sure has gotten quite a shock, and lost a pet to boot.”
“No need for thanking, Black. Although you’re right about Percy; I’m here partly for him, actually—“ with that prompt, the three of them enter the store, and Arthur continues with a gesture, “he’s been quite devastated, and wary of finding another pet like we’d found Scabbers—that is, Pettigrew. I said I’d check to see if there were any suitable pets for him.”
“Is he of Hogwarts age? I’d gladly gift him an owl, if he doesn’t have one already.”
Arthur admits that he doesn’t, but adds that there’s no need, and Sirius gleans—from Arthur’s demeanour and some of the slightly pointed things Minerva says—that the Weasleys are not very well off—Sirius has heard, of course, about how far the Weasley blood traitors of the sacred twenty-eight had fallen, but he never thought that the Blacks had been speaking financially. Thus, Sirius insists on getting Percy an owl; Arthur leaves the shop with a screech owl named Hermes, and Sirius leaves with the offer to host a welcome back/Order reunion party for Sirius at the Burrow.
Minerva promises she will contact as many people from the Order as possible, and spread the word of the small party on Saturday. She even promises to bring biscuits—Sirius hardly has any time to dwell on his empty flat before bed, too preoccupied with trying to figure out if Minerva had meant she would bake the biscuits herself, or if she was going to buy them.
Sirius is listening rapturously as Alastor Moody—with a magical eye whizzing about—recounts how he lost his leg. Moody’s not the most captivating of storytellers, but the contents of his words combined with the way his eye swivels around the room, even rolling to the back of his head, guarantees Sirius’ undivided attention.
“Anyway, enough about me. What about you, boy?” Moody asks in his gruff way.
“What about me? Nothing much has happened in the week I’ve been a proper free man.”
“Of course, and you’ll need time to adjust and the like. But after? What’re your plans? Will you come back to finish your training?”
“My training?”
“Aye, Auror training.”
Sirius gapes. “Auror—you mean work for the people who threw me into the worst bloody prison in the world without proof?”
“Well, there was some proof. Should’ve been a trial, of course, but that’s not on us; Bagnold didn’t want so much fuss with what she considered an open and shut case.” Moody’s eye swivels around to look at him, which Sirius feels is worse than watching it roll to the back of his head. “You’d have made a fine good auror, and was a fine soldier in the war. We could do with someone like you.”
“Yes—thank you—well, I don’t know if I want to be an auror anymore, if I’m being honest.” If Sirius is being honest, he had never wanted to be an auror; but he’d only ever told one person in the world that his true dream was to become a healer, and while she had encouraged him to take the proper courses and apply for an internship at St. Mungo’s in seventh year, she had been equally supportive when he explained his plans to train as an auror instead. She has yet to ask Sirius about his career plans, unlike Moody, and Sirius is grateful for it.
“Don’t want to work for the ministry?” Moody asks wryly.
“Not particularly,” Sirius deadpans. “Besides, it was always James who wanted to be an auror. I just followed along. Seems a bit… wrong, to be one without James as my partner.” They had started their training together, until the war got intense and Sirius dropped out.
Moody nods solemnly, “James was a bloody good auror, almost as good as Frank. I was sad to lose them both.”
“So was I,” Sirius responds quietly.
“Have I told you about catching the bastards that tortured the Longbottoms?”
“My cousin Bellatrix and her husband, wasn’t it?”
“Aye, and they were caught fairly quickly fleeing from the scene of crime, didn’t even deny the charges. Bellatrix Lestrange was positively gleeful about it.” Sirius shivers at those words. “But no, I meant about Barty Crouch Jr.”
Shaking his head, Sirius listens with chills down his spine as Moody recounts the story of a court trial led by Barty Crouch Sr., who had to send his own son to Azkaban. Sirius is so caught up with imagining the uproar that must have caused that he doesn’t pay any attention to the way Moody’s eye whizzes about.
“Ah, Black, there’s the lad you’ve been asking after the whole afternoon,” Moody announces suddenly, breaking into his thoughts, and Sirius perks up, turning to look where he thinks Moody’s magical eye is pointing towards.
“Harry?” Sirius asks, surprised.
“No, Lupin,” Moody corrects, and Sirius sees him, talking with Elphias Doge and looking very, very tired.
“Moony!” Sirius bounds over to Remus and throws his arms around him, only to back away hastily when Remus flinches. Doge makes a quick retreat and leaves the two.
“Sorry,” Remus says, “took me by surprise, that’s all.”
“No, no, my bad; was overexcited, I—bloody hell, Moony, you’re alive!” Alive Remus is, although admittedly he has seen better days. It has only been five years, but he looks like he has aged ten; still handsome as ever, of course, but with a smattering of new scars across his face, neck, and hands (the only places his skin is showing); he looks haggard and wan, his clothes hanging off his frame in the way Sirius recognises from during the war, when Remus was out doing who-knows-what and not eating at home. But he’s alive, and breathing, and here , his eyes the same amber color Sirius remembers, his scent of old parchment and chocolate still discernible by Sirius’ keen dog nose.
“Yes of course I’m alive, though it has been touch and go there.” Remus responds.
Sirius beams at him. “Where’ve you been? I kept asking around, and no one seemed to know.”
“I didn’t really keep in touch with anyone, after. Mary—well, we both decided it was less painful to join muggle society and cut all of the wizarding world out, including each other. I went to France for almost two years; only just came back to England.”
France! That would explain why he hadn’t visited—plus, if he had cut himself off from the wizarding world, maybe he hadn’t heard about Peter until recently. A wave of relief rushes over Sirius.
“Just here for a visit, then? Glad you were able to come. When are you going back?”
“Well I—might be here long-term. My lease back in Paris expired, so I’ve been at my Mum’s. Not sure what next.” The thrill of seeing Remus again—whole and healthy (for the most part)—starts to fade as Sirius realises their conversation has turned pleasant and civil and distanced, as if they are classmates at a school reunion, not two best friends who used to share a bed.
“Does that mean you’ll come back to wizarding society and such, then?” Remus shifts at Sirius’ words, and he knows some of the earlier warmth has left his voice.
“Not sure; much easier to get and hold muggle jobs, that’s for sure.” Yes; with the state of his dress—Sirius is fairly certain Remus had owned that coat during the war, and it had been threadbare even then—and his words, Sirius is willing to bet that Remus has had trouble getting and keeping jobs, both magical and muggle. Sirius wonders briefly about the Potters’ will; Lily had told him they were leaving a bit of money for Remus, but after a bit of arguing Sirius no longer wanted to talk about it—neither Remus, nor the need that the Potters had for a will—and he had no idea if they had kept it in the end. If they had, did Remus have the money? Sirius pushes the thought out of his mind; now wasn’t the time to ask.
“Right, but you’ll—you won’t cut off everyone, right? Would you—I mean—I’ll be here, in the wizarding world, that is, if you’re, ah… willing to be my friend again?” Remus hesitates, and Sirius’ heart breaks. “It’s alright if you don’t; I—I know… I know I wasn’t the best to you, years ago, and I know I have a lot to apologise and make up for—“
“Sirius, I let you rot in Azkaban—“
“You didn’t know, though, and—well that was so long ago—“
“You were there until almost two months ago—“
“And there’s just us, now, Moony.” The words silence Remus’. “I… miss you, Remus. I need you. You’re all I’ve got right now.”
Remus sighs. “I’ll be your friend again, Sirius. But—only that; not even best friends, just—friends.”
“I can do just friends,” Sirius assures, with much more confidence than he feels, and Remus smiles at him tiredly. “And as your friend, I must ask when the last time you slept was?”
“Well, I was a bit unwell two nights ago,” Remus replies airily. A wave of guilt hits Sirius. He’s been steadfastly avoiding his moon tattoo, which is charmed to match the phases of the moon.
“Oh… I—I’m so sorry, Remus, I should have—“
“No worries, nothing you could have done about it. I handled it well enough.” Remus sends him a stern look, “and I’ll continue to do so, myself.”
Sirius purses his lips, but does not argue. “Just friends” do not insist that they spend full moons with you while you transform into a bloodthirsty monster.
“Anyway, Sirius, I was wondering… about Harry.”
“Yes!” Harry; Remus will give him the information Dumbledore has been cagey about! “I’m trying to get Minerva to take me to see him—Dumbledore doesn’t think it would be too smart, says he doesn’t want to overwhelm him, or bring him any attention, but—well, I can’t bloody well not see Harry, now could I?”
“So they know where he is, then?” Remus sounds relieved, and Sirius frowns.
“What do you mean? Haven’t you seen him?”
“Seen… Harry? No; why would I have?”
“Because he’s James and Lily’s son, practically your godson—Remus, are you telling me you haven’t seen Harry once since 1981?”
“It’s not really my fault—Dumbledore wouldn’t tell me where he’d brought him, I had to get it out of Hagrid, and then—“
“Hagrid! I should’ve asked him first!”
“Well anyway, I wasn’t really able to go look for him until just this past week, but he’s not there. Did Dumbledore or McGonagall move him after? Without Hagrid knowing?”
Sirius frowns, “She never mentioned it; just said he was with family. Dumbledore said his guardians were living in the muggle world, to keep Harry safe and away from all the fame.” The fame—and Sirius’ own fame/infamy—had been a reason Dumbledore gave for Sirius approaching the Harry situation with caution.
Remus is quiet for a bit, confusing Sirius. “Perhaps…” Remus shakes his head and changes tack. “When is Professor McGonagall taking you to see Harry?”
“Tomorrow. Do you want to come with us? She says we’ll have to pretend to be muggles and such, but that shouldn’t be a problem for you.”
“I would love to.” Remus gave a smile, but Sirius’ gut churned uneasily; what was Remus hiding? “I’m gonna go grab something to eat, and perhaps finish my conversation with Doge.”
“Yes, of course, Moony—come see me before you go? I’ll let you know the plan tomorrow once I’ve finalised them with Minnie—Minerva, I mean.”
“I will admit, hearing you say Minerva instead of Minnie is going to take some getting used to.”
“She doesn’t quite appreciate Minnie, and I wasn’t in the mood to antagonise her, what with her being the only friendly visitor I had at St. Mungo’s outside of Dumbledore.”
“Sirius…” Remus’ face pinched with guilt.
“No, it’s okay, you weren’t obligated. ‘Sides, you were in France. I’m just glad you’re alive, and you’ll be in England for the time being.” Remus gives him a tight-lipped smile, then turns and flees, leaving Sirius with that cold unease.
Sirius mills about some more, talking to a few Order members—including Hagrid, who tells him he still has his motorcycle—but finds himself keeping Remus in his sights, as though afraid that if he looks away Remus will vanish. He really isn’t looking too great, Sirius must admit; he’s favouring his right leg—his left always had a harder time re-knitting—and his hands shake when he holds anything for too long. Sirius wonders what bandages he has on underneath his robes; cursed wounds always take so bloody long to heal.
As people begin trickling out, to rejoin their families or friends for other Saturday evening plans, Sirius sees Remus approach Minerva and goes to speak with them.
“Yes of course, Lupin, although three people is a bit of a crowd in that neighbourhood,” Minerva is telling Remus as Sirius walks up, “it’s in Surrey, and the neighbours gossip. Muggles, the lot of them, of course, but news still travels.”
“Surrey?”
“Yes, we may have to acquire a car and drive there from London. Sirius,” Minerva gives him a curt nod, “I was thinking we could meet at your flat and leave from there.”
“I don’t have a car,” Sirius replies, “though I am hoping to get my bike from Hagrid.”
“We’re not taking the bike,” Remus says sharply.
“No need, I believe I can get a car. But with that and my duties at Hogwarts, I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it until the afternoon. Would that be alright?”
Sirius shrugs, “we can catch them before dinner.”
“Indeed. Speaking of which, I must head out if I am to make it to dinner tonight; the children gossip so whenever a teacher is missing from the table.”
They bid her goodbye, but don’t leave each other’s side. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Remus speaks, voice low and urgent.
“I think we need to talk.” A wave of cold washes over Sirius at those words, brain whirring, thinking of all the things he and Remus need to talk about: their past relationship—or lack thereof; their breakup, and how much Sirius regrets it; the fact that they had both thought each other traitors and were both wrong— “About Harry,” Remus adds.
—About Harry? That had not been on Sirius’ list of possible things.
“What?” He asks sharply.
“Not here; I think… I have newer information about Harry’s whereabouts. Perhaps.”
“Perhaps? Newer than—“
“Newer than Hagrid and McGonagall, yes.”
“Dumbledore—“
“Well, you never know what Dumbledore knows, do you?” Remus’ eyes bore into Sirius’. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”
Sirius pauses, searching Remus’ face for a hint of a joke, or a lie, or anything aside from the urgent earnestness. “We could—I mean, we could get takeout and talk back home—at the flat, I mean. My flat. Or—or we could go somewhere else, I just think—privacy, might be—“
“Your flat will be fine.”
“It’s—it’s the same flat. The one that—“
“I know it’s the same flat.”
“You do?”
“You own a perfectly good flat, totally paid for, why would you not be living there?” Remus hesitated. “And, well, who do you think fixed it up for you?”
Who do you think fixed it up for you? The words echo in Sirius’ ears, and he feels dizzy and lightheaded after he apparates, as if he were still mid-travel.
Remus had fixed up Sirius’ flat for him. Remus has been in England since before Sirius was released from St. Mungo’s, early enough that he had the time to come to the flat and clean up five years of disuse and whatever messes Sirius had left untouched when he went to check on the Potters. Remus had not only known about Sirius being released and in St. Mungo’s, he had also made the decision to not visit, but instead to secretly help Sirius settle back into society.
Why? Sirius thinks as he numbly leads Remus into a flat he apparently needs no invitation to, why not visit at St. Mungo’s but fix up the flat, why not be there when I’m released but come to my welcome back party? Why spend five years not looking for Harry then say you have news of him?
“I’ll, er, put these down then, shall I?” Remus gestures awkwardly to the dining table with the bags of takeout in his hands, and at Sirius’ vague nod, sets about taking the food out. Sirius stands quietly between the door and the table, watching. It’s such a familiar sight, Remus opening boxes of takeout and setting out utensils, that Sirius feels as though they had just graduated Hogwarts, just moved into the flat together, still trying to figure out how to be adults and living off of the takeout from down the street. With Remus’ head bowed and his coat still on, the only differences are a few grey hairs and one thin silvery scar across the back of his right hand.
Remus gestures to Sirius’ seat, which he takes mechanically. Remus frowns at him as if in concern. “Would you like me to make tea?” He asks kindly, “I might also have a chocolate bar in my pocket somewhere if that will make you feel better.”
“Dessert before dinner, Moony?” Sirius tries to joke, but neither of them laugh. “Tea sounds lovely. I don’t have much, yet, though.” Sirius gestures uselessly at his tea cabinet—woefully understocked, since Sirius isn’t the biggest tea drinker, but it has never crossed his mind to put anything other than tea in there, since Remus had been a compulsive tea hoarder and drinker.
“I’ll have to buy you some tea,” Remus says as he starts the kettle and gets the teabags out. “Should’ve brought a housewarming gift of some kind.”
“I’ve had this flat since 1978,” Sirius replies as if in a daze. Why is Remus saying these things? Why is he talking as if he hadn’t lived here for years, and that he hadn’t secretly come in to clean up the flat then vanish like some overeager house elf?
“Well, a homecoming gift, then.” The kettle starts whistling, and Remus taps it with his wand. It pours out hot water into the two mugs Remus has prepared.
“You cleaned the flat; that’s like a homecoming gift, isn’t it?” Sirius’ voice is hoarse, his throat tight as if to stop the words from leaving. Remus hesitates. “Why didn’t you visit me, Remus?” Sirius whispers.
Remus’ shoulders slump and he sighs. Then he straightens and turns, mug in each hand, and walks back to deposit them on the dining table. “I… wasn’t sure you’d want me to, Sirius.”
“Wasn’t sure—“ Suddenly, it’s as if Sirius has life again. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I want you to?”
“Well, the last time we’d spoken, you said you didn’t. And… the healers said—“
“You talked to the Healers?”
“—that you needed friendly, familiar faces to help you remember good times, happy times, and I didn’t know if I could give you that.”
“…Remus, whenever they asked me to think of a happy memory I would think of you.” Remus inhales sharply at that. “Of course, then you didn’t visit, and I began thinking maybe you were—gone, too, or that you were still angry with me and hated me and nothing would bring you to forgive me for what I did—what I said to you, that night, and Remus you must know how much I’ve regretted that, everything I said, you must know—“
“Yes, well, I’m sure you did,” Remus interrupts stiffly, “seeing as I was not the traitor you were accusing me of being. Since Peter was, not me, and you’d let your prejudices get the better of you and it led to James and Lily dead.”
The words hit like a knife to the heart, and Sirius can’t stop the wounded noise that escapes him. Gone , the healers had always said, gone , Dumbledore and McGonagall had said, they were heroes, and fought bravely until the end . No one has said the words “James and Lily dead” around Sirius except Peter and himself, and he tried to kill Peter and often wished the same for himself during those five years in Azkaban. And although Sirius has thought it every day, no one has ever told him that what happened with the Potters was his fault.
“I’m sorry,” Remus says quietly, into the silence, “that was uncalled for. It was not your fault—“
“No,” Sirius shakes his head, “no, it was. I was the one who thought you the traitor, even when James and Lily—“ Sirius’ voice broke, but he continued, “when they believed you innocent. And I was the one who told James to switch secret keepers. I was the one who thought to use Peter. I handed them to Voldemort, and I didn’t betray them but it was still my fault.”
“Peter played us. He… he would whisper things, about you, and I know he whispered things about me. He made you think the traitor was me—“
“And I never should have believed him!”
“No, you shouldn’t have. But that doesn’t make what happened to James and Lily your fault.” Remus sighs, “if it’s your fault, then it’s also mine. I could’ve tried to make up with you, could’ve told you everything you wanted to know, could’ve been honest with you. Maybe if we’d been honest then we wouldn’t’ve doubted each other, would’ve caught Peter sooner.” Remus pauses. “And maybe you wouldn’t have been in left in Azkaban to rot.”
“Maybe it’s all our faults; maybe all the innocent ones have died.”
Remus looks away, purses his lips, and Sirius knows it’s a thought he’s had before. What a pair they made, the werewolf and the disowned Black heir, two men who were willing to give up everything for the cause—and nearly had—but not even the war had wanted their lives. Only the good die, Sirius remembers thinking once, shivering in his cell, unfortunately human. The wretched are forced to keep on living in hell.
“No.” Remus says firmly after a beat. “No, Harry is innocent; Harry still lives. It’s Peter’s fault, and he’ll pay for it.”
Sirius shivers at the thought of Peter in Azkaban. They know he’s an animagus, and would have spelled his cell to prevent him from transfiguring; he won’t even have an animal form to protect him from the worst of it like Sirius had had. Sirius hates Peter, possibly more than anyone else in the world, but even Peter does not deserve a lifetime with the dementors.
“And speaking of Harry,” Remus continues, oblivious to Sirius’ dark thoughts, “he’s not with the Dursleys. I looked.”
“What?” Sirius frowns. “Who? Durseys?”
“Dursleys. Petunia Evans married a man named Vernon Dursley.”
“Petunia Evans? Like—“
“Lily’s sister, yes.”
“The horrible muggle who hates magic and blamed Lily for their parent’s death?”
“Yes; from what I’ve seen, her husband is even worse.”
“Well why in Merlin’s name would Harry be with them?”
“That’s where he was left; Hagrid said so, and they live in Surrey. I have a feeling that’s where McGonagall is thinking for us to go tomorrow.”
“They left Harry with Petunia Evans?!”
“Apparently.”
“ Why ?”
“I haven’t the faintest, to be honest, but—Sirius, he’s not with them. Both Hagrid and McGonagall think Harry’s living with them—“
“Minerva did say family, oh fuck—“
“But he’s not, Padfoot.” The use of Sirius’ nickname makes his heart jump. “I watched them for days; that’s partly why it looks like I haven’t slept, I did some reconnaissance overnight last night to be certain, only had a few hours of sleep before I went to the Burrow.”
“You went last night, and Harry wasn’t there?”
“I’ve been watching them nearly all week; they’ve got this one son, rotten spoiled little thing, absolutely awful, and unless they’ve got him imprisoned in some secret place that prevented me from discovering him with any revealing charm I know, he’s not there.”
“Then where is he?”
“I don’t know, that’s why I came to you, I thought Dumbledore might have told you, then you said McGonagall knew—and she could, still, but I don’t think so, Sirius.”
“Padfoot,” Sirius suddenly blurts out, “you can call me Padfoot.”
The corners of Remus’ mouth twitch, “alright, Padfoot.”
“And can I… can I still call you Moony?”
“If you’d like, I suppose you can.”
Sirius doesn’t mean to beam as wide as he does, but can’t find it in him to be embarrassed by it. Instead, he finally starts in on his dinner; thank Merlin for warming charms, or the food would have gone cold by now. Remus takes his cue and starts eating as well.
“Well then,” Sirius starts, chewing importantly, “first thing we do is talk to Dumbledore. We can go in the morning; I believe I can floo his office to set up a meeting. If anyone knows where Harry is, it’ll be Dumbledore. I reckon the Dursleys were too horrible of parents, so Dumbledore took Harry back and found him a different home, a better home. He told me Harry was happy and healthy and well-looked after.”
“And if Dumbledore tells us where Harry is?”
“Then we go, maybe with Minnie still, and see him in the afternoon as planned.”
“And if he doesn’t tell us?”
“I’m sure he’ll tell us, Moony. I’m Harry’s godfather, I can gain legal custody of Harry; Dumbledore will have to tell the law where Harry is if I press for my right to raise him.”
“Do you want custody of Harry?”
“Yes. No. I mean… I want Harry, of course, want to be his family the way I should’ve been from the start. But, well, if he’s happy and healthy and loved, like Dumbledore says, then I don’t want to take him from his family. I’d like to see him regularly, be part of his life and the like, but it wouldn’t be fair to him to force him to live with a virtual stranger when he’s perfectly content and being raised well.”
“And if he’s not?”
“Well if he’s not, then I can’t bloody well leave him there, now, can I? So long as I’m sure I can’t do worse than the folks he’s with now, I’ve got to raise him then, haven’t I?”
“Yes… I suppose you’re right…”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I’m right! Harry deserves the best, and if I’m the best for him then I’m the best!”
“Yes, but who gets to decide if you’re the best, is all I’m saying…”
“Well, if you’re going to be all judgemental about it, you can be the one to decide.” Sirius scoffs.
Remus rolls his eyes. “Alright… And what if, when we go tomorrow, Dumbledore doesn’t know where Harry is either? What if he also thinks Harry is still with the Dursleys?”
“Well then, we’ll just have to find Harry on our own, then, won’t we? We’ll go to Surrey with Minerva in the afternoon and ask Petunia Evans some questions if he’s not there like he’s supposed to be.”
Remus nods slowly. “Yes, I suppose that makes sense,” he murmurs into his mug.
“Approve of my plan, o great planner of pranks and other such mischief?” Sirius teases.
Remus smiles. It’s a small smile, but it’s a real one, the first real smile Sirius has seen from Remus in six years, and Sirius’ heart flutters at the sight of it. “As vague and Sirius it is, yes, I approve of it.”
Sirius lets out a bark of laughter. “You hate Sirius puns!” He exclaims.
“I hated them because you wouldn’t stop with them! I couldn’t say the word serious around you for six years, and even after that sometimes you’d snigger!” Sirius chuckles at that, and Remus points dramatically. “See! Do you know how difficult it is to alter your entire vocabulary so as to never say the word ‘serious’?”
“Yes, Remus, of course I do, my name is Sirius.”
“Ah, but that means you’ve had your whole life to get used to it; you don’t have to change your vocabulary completely. I, on the other hand—“
“Oh come off it, Prongs never had that much trouble!”
“Prongs was rarely serious, he had few occasions when he needed to use the word.” Sirius’ lip twitches, and Remus glares. “Don’t you dare say James was never Sirius,” he warns, “besides, you know that’s not true, what about that time you polyjuiced yourselves into each other?”
Sirius’ smile slides off his face. He doesn’t remember that time. What great prank was Moony talking about, what happy memory was taken from him?
“Padfoot? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t…” Sirius sighs. “I don’t have all my memories, Rem. The dementors… they took some of my happy memories. I don’t remember ever polyjuicing myself into James, or him turning into me.”
Remus’ mouth opens in a small ‘o’. Sirius looks away from him. “Do you…” Remus clears his throat. “Would you like me to tell you about it?”
Sirius looks back at him. Remus is looking at him softly—not pityingly, though there is a tinge of sadness to it. There’s a small smile on his face, and in the flickering light of the candles, Remus looks as handsome as Sirius has ever remembered him being; although, admittedly, an even handsomer Remus may very well have been taken from him, too.
“I’d love that.” Sirius says.