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October 31, 1981
Sirius screamed at the top of his lungs. It’s too late now, he murmured. He reached the already damaged fence, rushing towards the door of a house he recognized very well. Only it’s standing differently than the last time he was here, broken, impaired, smelling like dust rather than good memories, joyous laughter, and welcoming stares. He is greeted by emptiness, it feels rather shallow not hearing the same, ‘Alright, Pads?’ as he entered through the front porch. He walked slowly into the hall, stepping into ruins of shattered walls and ruptured furniture, only to find a horrifying sight. Sirius never really felt a stabbing pain like this before, right through his hollow chest, except there’s nothing that could physically hurt him. Even though he knew what was coming, it still feels like the whole world collapsed in front of his eyes. The ruffled black hair and hazel brown eyes he looked into almost every day for the last decade of his life, not that he has many decades to live more now seeing— his Prongs, laying there lifeless, cold, unable to move.
‘I’m sorry, James. I’m really, really sorry’ he confessed. Sirius rarely cries for the past years, with the current climate of the war he is used to funeral after funeral, creating numbness inside his fragile soul. But this— this is different. They joked around death all the time, casually mentioning who’s next in the middle of a conversation, neither of them believing they would last very long, even before the prophecy. The prophecy, the start of it all. ‘Harry’, he thought to himself. Sirius looked up, as he found a half-giant man walking down the stairs with a blanket in his arms.
“Black,” Rubeus Hagrid whispered. “I am really sorry.”
Sirius’ hands trembled, shaking like mad. Hearing another living person confirming what he actually sees, sends shivers down his spines. It is true then, it’s not just in his head. James, Lily, and Harry are all dead.
“It’s okay, Black. Not yer fault. I got Harry. Dumbledore’s orders.”
“H-harry? Is it him in your arms? Is he alive?” Sirius didn’t even recognize the voice that came out of his mouth.
“He survived the Killing Curse,” Hagrid mumbled. Sirius’ head was spinning, his godson is alive, not dead, for whatever reason that seems impossible. However, it does not matter. He has to get Harry away, to his flat, create a safe space for him to grow up in. Merlin, what did he know about raising a child, but he wants him close, to protect him.
“Give Harry to me Hagrid. I’m his godfather. I’ll look after him.” He demanded. Very sure this time, out of all the questions and worries he got in his mind, this one is the only certain thing.
The next few minutes seems to be a blur. Hagrid refuses, repeating constantly about Dumbledore trusted him to do this job, and of course, Sirius argued, he even shouted a couple of times out of desperation. But in the end, he gave in.
“Take the motorbike, Hagrid.” Sirius muttered.
If he could not take Harry with him, there is only one more thing he needs to sort out. His mind drove with anger as he clenched his fist and walked out of the house for the last time.
“Wormtail, you filthy coward.”
***
November 2, 1981
Sleepless nights and a series of howling had been Remus' routine for the past weeks. It is in fact, a mission from the Order, to continue working underground with the werewolves, learning what he can gain from the pack, as well as offering them a deal, a better living condition and a safe space away from the death eaters, only if they agreed to fight with the right side.
But the rustling wind and the sunlight filtered through the leaves from the forest seems so long ago now, he thought, as he stepped in front of Dumbledore's office. He already heard the news— I mean how could he not. Fireworks still roaring across the country the day he returned to England, with beaming smiles across every person he passed on the streets.
"You-Know-Who is gone!" He heard people yell recklessly in the High Street of Hogsmeade earlier.
He tried to be normal, as normal as anyone could be. "Chocolate Cauldrons," He whispered to a gargoyle on the seventh floor. It stepped aside unraveling a circular moving staircase. Sitting calmly in front of his desk, with a quill ready on his hand was none other than Albus Dumbledore.
"Remus," muttered the older man. "I offer my deepest condolences. I am very sorry we have to meet in this unkind situation."
Remus could not bear seeing Dumbledore's collected gestures. As if being polite is the right thing he has to worry about right now. No, he must get this done quickly.
"I haven't got much time. I am leaving the country after the funeral. Tell me what you need to. Although, I think I pretty much knew everything already," proclaimed Remus, still standing up.
"I believe there is no rush for you to leave, as I told you before, the mission from the Ord—"
"It's not about the Order! I do not care about your stupid missions anymore, either. Don't you understand? I have no one here," Remus' voice began to crack.
"I understand very clearly how you felt, Remus. Please, sit down. Then, we can start properly from the beginning," The old man explained.
Remus' hands began to shake. He never planned to lose his temper in his old principal's office. He sits down carefully, hiding his hand beneath his traveling cloak, patiently waiting for Dumbledore to tell his side of the story.
***
The funeral.
Remus eyes' avoid every gaze that turns towards him. He heard whispers of his name murmured briefly followed by exchange glances after his speech. Of course, he is distraught— who in the right mind would not?
The funeral was very quiet. Only several Order's members were still standing with their own two feet. The rest of them, dead.. or tortured to insanity. Or in Azkaban, he gulped, pushing the thought as far as he could.
"You did nothing," The conversation between him and his old principal came ringing.
"I certainly hope I did the best that I could, Remus."
"He should at least get a trial. See what he got to say first," He heard himself cry.
Does it even matter? Can he even bring himself to go to the hearing, listening to every bit of confession from Sir— it even hurts to say his name out loud. Traitor. The outcome will be exactly the same, it will hurt even more, looking the traitor's dead in the eyes with him confessing the murder of his best friends. Not one, but three of them. Although he wants to believe the opposite, the whole wizarding world would never give him a chance.
Survivor’s guilt still crept up around his thoughts with every passing step. A lot of could-haves and what-ifs run through his mind, turning into a dark and uneasy contemplation. He never even saw this coming, how foolish was he not learning every warning sign, remembering how different Sirius was for the last couple of weeks before he went on a mission. When he left that night, it felt easier, seeing how distant they are all to him, James, Lily, Peter, and the traitor.
A dark creature, they must think, ready to hunt or kill in the name of their pack. Is it Sirius doing? Infiltrating their minds pushing Remus away from the plan as far as possible? He should not be trusted, or even be near Harry. Oh, Harry, poor little thing. He would love to see him again, seeing he plays with his toy broomsticks roaming around the room. But, what could a lanky unemployed werewolf do to a year old child?
He sat near the grave, lowering his gaze until everyone else left. Tears streamed down his eyes, as he tried to cover his face up. The last big funeral they went to together was Marlene’s, and the rest of her family. It was a much bigger funeral, dominated by Mrs. McKinnon’s side of the family.
They were all there, holding each other by hands, remembering the old days when Marlene hexed James with a jelly-legs jinx in front of everyone in the Great Hall. On the other hand could not fathom the reason why Voldemort himself wiped out her entire family, subconsciously thinking they were going to be next. They were all so young, aging and maturing with the pressure of the war, instead of being excited about their first entry-level jobs. But at least they had each other, at that time.
Remus drank more, slowly fuzzing up into the background, worried he might bump into someone he knew, forced to answer questions about what his plans are next. Honestly, he doesn't even know. He just wants to get away. Far far away from the place, he used to call home.
***
Isle of Skye, 3 November 1981.
Remus rolled yet again another cigarette. He has not slept since Apparating to the rolling green hills, straight after the funeral. He could not visit the empty flat without broken down to tears, every memory of them crushing back in an instant. Everyone grieves differently, he thought. The definition he chose was staying away from any humans, or else he will be reminded how flawed they are all, foolish and short-sighted beings.
He got every right to be angry, but to whom? There is no one left to blame, except himself. Sirius, he murmured as he blew out smoke from his mouth. He got what he deserved already, rotten in a cell in Azkaban for the rest of his life. Remus’ thoughts wandered to the good memories they had, renting a place together in the middle of muggle London, blasting through David Bowie in the living room while they drunk away all the war scars. Things used to be so simple, even between the nights where they did not see each other that much, where his and Sirius’ mission clearly never been the same. But he trusted him. Oh, how the most dangerous thing is to love.
How is it fair anyway? Out of all the people in this world, why would it be James & Lily? Why should he be the one alive? James, the one who always provided any support for his friends. Remus didn’t even remember if they ever fought. He remembered the way his face lights up while talking about being an Animagi, the only way they could be with Remus during the full moon. And Lily, who had always been there for him when he needed her the most. Countless sleeping draught she made for him during his worst nights, her sweet calming voice, but also her clap back comments directed at Sirius. Blimey, it’s always going to come back to him, isn’t it?
And Peter. How foolish could he be, thinking that he could win against Sirius, one of the best duelists in their year. He should have contacted Remus first, see what they can do together. But, Remus would not blame him, receiving the news was hard enough, he remembered the rage and anger brewing inside him.
He thought about Marlene again. And, Frank & Alice being tortured by the death eaters. He doesn’t know how long he will stay here or the worst part, had the strength to Apparate back to the flat. Or even if he still wants to do magic, when it feels like one of the most tormenting things in the world. It used to light up sparks in his eyes, his belly, wherever he can feel something. Now it just feels like dust and a crackling fire. He does not know anything, nor has any incline of curiosity to know. He feels everything, but nothing at all at the same time.
Is it harder to be the one who died or the one who stays alive? He wondered.
***
Azkaban, 3 November 1981.
Sirius woke up from his nightmare, not knowing the exact time of the day. The cell was always dark; and he could always feel the dampness from the ocean. But he’s been counting every time his meal got delivered, in which he knew this was his second day in Azkaban.
Happy birthday, he thought to himself, after transforming into his human body. Sirius’ found sleeping as Padfoot more bearable than as a human, oddly enough he felt like he could access his thoughts better as a dog even when the Dementors were near. Sirius tried to regain his memory, the ones where he heard his friends sing Happy Birthday while he stood at one of the tables in the common room, which he did every single year. But, everything seems so blurry and fuzzy, and his thoughts keep coming back to James Potter’s corpse laying there with his eyes wide open.
He then thought of Remus Lupin, his well being, his whereabouts, or everything about him at once. He wants him to be well, to continue living his life the best that he could, while the thought keeps coming back to the day he imagined Remus found out about the news, his outrage and despair, he’s hurting… and he thought he was the one who hurt him.
Sirius cried again. He never remembered even once crying on the day of his birthday. Not when he’s surrounded by his friends. Every single one of his birthdays during his Hogwarts years was always filled with parties and a lot of alcohol. Even the bad ones, like after he was kicked out from the Black family house, was always a night to remember.
He thought of fleeing before, coming up with an escape plan. His grieve prevents him, he’s weak, fragile, and full of self-hatred. Dark thoughts seem to be consuming him, forcing him to give up, accepting his fate. His anger towards Peter could not even fight them, it was always circled back to regret, of choosing Peter instead of trusting Remus.
Some nights he hears screaming, unknown who it belongs to, or is it only a product of his evil mind. The voice changes, sometimes it sounds strangely like his mother, Walburga Black, other times it sounds like his brother, Regulus Black. Impossible, he thought multiple times. They are both dead. And, I am as good as dead too.
Some nights he carved numbers on the wall, using a piece of wood he randomly found. Numbers turned to sketches until he eventually became creeped out by his own portrayal of his scribbling thoughts. The rest of the nights, he thought about magic. How it used to give him a feeling of euphoria, how it used to smell like old books and wet tree trunks. Now it just feels like smoke and burning ashes. His old memories kept drifting further away from him, making him feel less like a whole person until he feels nothing at all, but everything at the same time.