Chapter Text
1st August, 1982. Azkaban Prison, Somewhere In The North Sea.
Light burns through Sirius’ closed eyes, waking him from his already fitful sleep. He tries to shy away from it and curl in on himself more though he can't help but falter as the warmth seeps into him and the harsh, icy air from the Dementors fades blissfully away. He squints against the light, trying to see through the unnatural bright glow the patronus brings as the fox circles around his cell. Through the barred door, he just about makes out the silhouettes of two people, standing too still to be the usual monthly patrol from the Aurors.
“Hello, Sirius.”
The voice is quiet, barely audible over the shriek of another inmate begging for the patronus to come nearer to them and give them the same respite from the Dementor's horrors, but Sirius hears it. He knows it. The rough accent, cracked and broken resonates deeper inside of him than his own voice would. The sound of it makes him feel as though he can draw breath for the first time in what feels like forever. The voice is relief and warmth and heartbreak all wrapped together.
His eyes adjust against the light and on the other side of the bars stands Remus. Sirius doesn’t know how much time has passed since his arrest, it’s impossible to keep track of days and nights in this place but Remus looks older. His eyes aged by the grief and his shoulders sag, weary from the war. The muscles in his jaw look painfully tight and even across his cell, Sirius can see the anger burning behind his glassy gaze, so intense that Sirius has to look away.
A step behind him Emmeline stands in her auror robes, her wand drawn as she casts the patronus charm. She doesn’t look at him, her eyes are fixed at a point several feet above his head, full of unshed tears and fury. It can’t have been too long. Sirius surmises, they don’t look much older really and he doesn’t think that they would be able to sit on their anger for too long.
He hates that they’re here, within the range of the Dementors effects. He wants to tell them to leave but he has no right to tell anyone to do anything any more. The last people he told to do something are dead now, because of his decision. It was, after all, his idea that made the betrayal and their murders possible. He forces himself to look at them, deserving of his own discomfort under their scathing looks, he can’t look away, selfishly wanting to preserve the image of his face in his mind, to hold onto for as long this hell allows.
“Haven’t you got anything to say?” Remus asks, his voice scathing and sharp, a tone Sirius has only heard directed at him once before.
“Remus,” Sirius tries, but his voice croaks from the lack of use. The last time he’d spoken was a week ago when he’d yelled through the walls for Bella to put them all out of their misery and tear out her own throat already. Or maybe it was months ago. Sirius doesn’t really remember. “Remus. I’m sorry.”
Remus' jaw tightens, his nostrils flaring as he inhales sharply and his shoulders square as though he’s considering reaching through the bars and throttling him. Sirius wouldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t even try to stop him. He doesn’t think he could.
“You’re sorry?” Remus laughs, a sound that’s no longer full of humour that brightens his face, just a cold, empty sound that causes a painful feeling to twist inside of Sirius’ chest that hurts far worse than anything the Dementors can do to him. “For what? For murdering our best friend? For betraying people you called family? Or for finally giving in and being the son your dear old mother always wanted?” Remus' fingers curl around the bars as he steps closer, his voice dark and full of pain. “Was she proud? When you went back to them? Was it worth the lives you took?”
Sirius feels the tears on his cheeks but there’s nothing he can do to fight them off but look away, unable to bear seeing Remus looking at him with such disgust. “I didn’t-” he tries but he can’t find the words. He can’t make this right. “I wouldn’t-”
“You did though,” Remus says it so simply, like it's just another fact he knows. That Sirius is a Death Eater. That he’s a Black through and through. No better than the rest of his family sitting in this very prison. “You got James and Lily and nearly Harry killed. You murdered Peter!”
“I wish I had!” The words tear through Sirius with such a force of rage that he didn’t know he was still capable of and it startles Remus, his hands falling away from the bars and Emmeline finally looks down at him, her wand raised up to point at him as though he's still a threat to them, chained to the wall and half dead. “I wish I had killed that rat,” Sirius says, the rush gone and he’s too tired to breathe again as he sinks back against the stone, the chains on his ankles rattling. “I wish I’d done it.” Been their Secret Keeper. Protected them. Avenged them.
“What?”
Sirius hears the question but he can’t bring himself to acknowledge it. It's too late for it to matter. They’re all better off without him. They should leave him here to rot where he can’t put anyone else in danger.
"What do you mean?” Remus asks, he sounds wary but Sirius doesn’t respond.
“Answer him, Black,” Emmeline speaks for the first time, her voice cold and harshly professional, like that’s all he is to her. Another case. “Don’t make me get a Dementor.”
Sirius flinches at the threat, his head snapping to her sharply. He wants to think it’s an empty threat but she wants to hold someone responsible for the losses of her family and he knows better than to doubt her.
“Don’t,” he manages, “please. Not them.”
Not when he can’t use Padfoot to escape them. It’s somehow still not made the Ministry’s file that he’s an animagus, perhaps it's the sort of thing nobody has had a chance to tell them without a trial. But he can’t give Emmeline another chance to tell them. He won’t survive without Padfoot.
“Then explain,” she says coldly, “what do you mean you wish you’d killed him? You killed Peter and those muggles. Do you deny it now?”
Sirius presses his head back against the cold stone, taking comfort at the feel of the stone digging painfully into his skull. He shakes his head at his own stupidity. Peter had played them all so easily it was almost funny. They thought of him exactly how he wanted them to and nobody had ever looked at him twice.
“Yes,” Sirius says it casually but he feels the way the air changes as Emmeline’s patronus wavers and the cold prickles at his skin as the glowing fox that’s circling the room stumbles into a mist before firming itself into a solid form again. Neither of them says a word, they just wait and Sirius tries to steel himself. “I didn’t cast that curse. When I got arrested, Peter Pettigrew was still very much alive.”
Remus opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, his hand raised but he aborts the gesture and closes his mouth.
Sirius swallows the taste of bile that rises up into his mouth and starts. “James and Lily never made me their Secret Keeper. I was never the spy. It was all Peter the whole time…”