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Sirius Orion Black stood outside number 4, Privet Drive, for what must’ve been the fifth night in a row. He didn’t stand outside, exactly, more like hid behind the bushes across the street. He wasn’t precisely Sirius Black, either, for no mere passerby could ever make the connection between the shaggy, dangerous-looking fugitive and the shaggy, dangerous-looking hound partially concealed between Mrs Turner’s gardenias. Not unless they knew him well. But every single person who knew him well was dead now- or as good as.
He’d only managed to get a glimpse of Harry so far and at first he'd been so taken aback that he had almost missed him. The boy was small, too small, Sirius thought. But what did he know? Maybe that’s how thirteen year olds have always looked- he couldn’t remember. Perhaps it was his oversized clothes that made him seem so petite. From this distance -and with Padfoot’s eyesight- he couldn’t make much else, only that his hair looked exactly like James’s had during fifth year when they’d been so caught up trying to complete their animagi form that they’d both put off getting a haircut for months. When they got home, Euphemia gave them a good dressing down about how important keeping tidy was and swiftly and neatly trimmed her son’s mess of a head. Sirius had politely declined, thinking that keeping his hair a bit longer made little difference. Besides, it was more than worth the extra time he kept detangling it if that meant Remus would keep helping him comb it out.
His mind is wandering off again. It’s been happening less and less as the days go by, but it’s not been easy adjusting to the idea that he can think about whatever he wishes to now, with no dementors in sight ready to suck out of his mind every single happy memory he has. They’d been flooding his head ever since he left that wretched island. Reg’s fifth birthday. His uncle Alphard gifting him an annotated copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray just before he decided to cut himself off the family. The day he realised Potter might not be as bad as his parents wanted him to believe. Remus’s smile when he tried a chocolate frog for the first time. Even Pettiggrew’s squeals of laughter after a prank was successful.
Fragments of a life long forgotten, stretching from the day his baby brother was born, to the last time he held his lover in his arms. But, inevitably, with the sweet came the sour. James was dead, as was Lily, Marlene, Dorcas, the Prewetts and so many of his friends. Pettiggrew was a traitor and the cause of all this, and Remus- he surely wanted nothing to do with him. Sirius had thought about going after the man, but how would he even find him? He was certain Moony had adopted a muggle identity and way of living, probably cut all ties to the wizarding world; and why shouldn’t he? There was no one holding him back anymore. If he was still was smart as he’d been then, he’d now be living a quiet life somewhere far, far away, enjoying this late August night with good company that knew no other type of magic than the one that is loving Remus Lupin.
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Remus John Lupin couldn’t sleep. This wasn’t unusual, considering his special condition and the side effects it came with, but it hasn’t gotten any easier through the years. The night was lovely, cool and quiet, the stars bright and clear, with no moon in sight to dim their light. His last transformation had been a particularly tough one and even days later he had still not bounced back as well as he wanted to. The fact that it had fallen on the same night Dumbledore had decided to offer him the job had not helped, either. The wolf could feel the anxiety, could smell it on him and it unsettled him even more than usual. Hungry, confused and nostalgic over a place he, too, once called home, the beast tried to take out its anger on its own flesh.
As he stood up from the Remus-shaped dip on the mattress, he felt the scratches pull apart and he doubled over in pain. A bit of dictum would fix him right up, no problem. Poppy had taught him well during the years he’d spent under her care, so he was more than capable of patching himself up and caring for his wounds; and even if sometimes he’d probably needed professional help, there was nothing he could do about it. The little village he lived in was nowhere near any wizarding communities and going to the muggles for help would cause such an uproar, he’d probably have to move again. The howls and screams Remus could conceal under a silencing charm, but showing up with his face torn apart and a gapping hole on his thigh would raise a few eyebrows, wouldn’t it?
He slowly moved to the cupboard where he kept his pre-brewed healing potions, sanitised gauzes, plenty of dictum ointment and a muggle first aid kit. He lifted the blood stained flannel shirt and carefully cleaned and soothed the three big lines that covered his abdomen. The middle one would definitely leave a bigger scar than the other two, but at least it hadn’t torn over his navel. He changed his shirt and summoned his tattered pack of cigarettes. Without meaning to, his thoughts wandered back to Dumbledore’s offer. He’d sworn he was done being the old man’s office boy. Running his errands blindly, following every order without questioning them first. It had gotten his best friends killed, but he was at his mercy. Remus was getting old, but the wolf was as lively and energetic as ever. As if his human form was draining and his beastly one fed upon his lost strength. He couldn’t afford taking any more day to day jobs- not if he wanted to put any food in his stomach and Lyall’s fortune had sustained him for as long as it could.
A professor. At Hogwarts, no less. Why now? Merely three weeks before the start of the semester. He knew why, of course. The news had even reached his remote cottage through the television down at the village’s pub. Sirius Black, the man who had murdered in cold blood a dozen innocent people twelve years ago and had since been kept into a top secret facility, had escaped. The pint he was holding had slipped from his grip and shuttered into little pieces on the floor. In his shock, he bent down and with his bare fingers tried to pick up the mess. Remus could feel someone pulling him back, maybe saying something, but his ears were buzzing, his vision blurry. His palms stung, blood oozing from the tiny little cuts. He looked at them, then back up the screen, at Sirius’s young face, at the same picture the Aurors had taken from his own home to use for this exact purpose- and he laughed. There was no humour in it, no warmth, no depth. It was shallow, rough and probably terrifying.
Gwen, the young woman that worked at the pub and the closest thing to a friend Remus had had in years, shook him out of his stupor. He tried to focus on her face, the silver nose piercing, the purposefully slit eyebrow, the pale curls framing her freckled face. He whipped his head around, but luckily it was just the two of them in the room. He had been waiting for her to close up, he remembered now. He offered to help clean up and walk her home, even though it wasn’t necessary since the gravest danger one could encounter around these parts was Mr Sheen’s demented border collie that sometimes mistakes humans for sheep and tries to get them in line. And him, he supposed, but no one else knew that.
Gwen had approached him the first week he’d moved there nine months ago, with the confidence that can be found only in queer people when meeting each other. To this day she hasn’t told him how she knew, but Remus doesn’t mind. No one else seems to find it as transparent as she did and even if someone figures it out, he doubts they’ll mention it in his face. His scars and tall figure intimidated even the toughest of men -and intrigued the ones it should.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry”. He kept apologising over and over and over, wiping his bloody hands on his shirt and looking anywhere but her eyes. He could smell the worry on her.
“It’s alright, Rem, 's alright. It was an empty glass, see? No harm done. Let’s clean you up.”
Her voice was soothing and caring and it hurt- Merlin, it hurt.
That was five days ago and there had been no progress in the investigation since. Of course there fucking wasn’t. He’d contemplated reaching out to someone, someone in the Ministry perhaps, tell them Black’s an animagus, that he probably was somewhere right under their noses, but he couldn’t bother. The old man knew, anyway, he’d made sure to use their little talents to their full advantage when he recruited them for the Order, draining them to the bone.
As he quietly finished his cig, another memory came to mind. One he didn’t even remember having up until he read that letter a few days ago. It was during The Night, as he’d grown to call it in his head. James and Lily were dead. Harry had somehow survived the curse. Sirius had ran as Remus stood with the wailing baby in his arms, his own screams concealing the tiny ones. Someone was in front of him then- McGonagall? Yes, it was her. She pried the tiny bundle from his grip, trying to soothe the toddler that was reaching out for his uncle- or was he reaching for his dad? Remus was torn, his mind everywhere. James’s body laid stiff and lifeless behind him, visible from the doorstep. When did babies start developing a conscious again? He must focus. Sirius. Sirius had fled the moment he’d seen Prongs. Why? His face had made an awful grimace. Where did he go? His bike’s still here. Is that Hagrid standing next to it? Where was Peter? Someone must’ve summoned him by now. The secret mission he’d been assigned on was useless now. Voldemort was dead.
Lily was dead.
Next thing he recalls is lying on a hospital bed. It wasn’t Madame Pomfrey’s Wing, that much he could tell by the smell. Hogwarts had never smelt of death.
His throat was sore and dry, like after a full moon. There were no injuries he could feel. Opening his eyes, he scanned the room around him. It was a single, with a small window on his left. The sun hadn’t come up fully yet. Then, a whiff of something in the air. Burnt wool and…
Fuck.
Sherbet Lemon.
Tall, slender and eerily terrifying as ever, Albus Dumbledore looked at him over his half moon specs, eyes shiny, almost teary. He didn’t buy it. He never had and the old man knew it. Remus’s senses had always allowed him to see through people better than any Legilimens. You could block your mind, conceal your thoughts, but no amount of skill could make your heart beat steady when you lied. And Albus Dumbledore was nothing if not a liar. That was their little secret ever since he was a boy. You don’t tell, I won’t tell. His tears meant as little to Remus as his kind smile and false calmness did.
They had a conversation then. Or, more accurately, Dumbledore had done the talking and Remus busied himself trying not to throw on his head anything he could get his hands on. After breaking the news that Sirius had been arrested and sentenced to life in Azkaban for the betrayal of his Secret Keeper Oath and, hence, the murder of the Potters, he denied Remus’s requests to see Harry, saying he’d gone to stay with blood relatives. Blood relatives. Because after everything they’d been through, after everything they’d done for this fucking world, they were still not a family. When, however, he’d asked about Sirius’s trial, since at that point he was still in shock and whole-heartedly certain that there had been a mistake, he was informed that there wouldn’t be one. All evidence pointed to the accused. Peter had apparently died trying to unsuccessfully stop a manic Sirius Black from killing anyone else. None of that shit made any sense. When did Peter come back? And Sirius’s face at Godric’s Hollow- the last time he’d ever seen him- was not that of a man who had just murdered his best friends.
He’d been warned. If he’d tried to defend Black, he’d be arrested as an accomplice. Sirius was guilty and there’s nothing he could do. It is not your fault, Dumbledore says. I’ve been where you are, he says. The nature of a man is what it is, there’s nothing to be done.
Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
And yet, he found himself at that bastard’s mercy once more. What could he want from him? To protect Harry? He didn’t even know what the boy looked like. Maybe help catch Black? Or did they just want to keep an eye on him for fear of trying to conspire with Sirius? It had to be the last one. Dumbledore knew the lengths the Marauders would go to for one another, perhaps he thought that even after all these years it’d still be the same.
The sun would soon come up. In a few hours he’ll write his answer back, and pray with all his might that he won’t regret it.
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Something was wrong. Padfoot could smell it before he saw Harry storming out of the house in the middle of the night, wand in one hand, his trunk dragging behind him, angry tears streaming down his face. He’d seen this coming, that’s why he’d postponed going to look for food that night. He could tell Harry had been uneasy lately, his face slowly losing its colour, his nightly walks becoming longer and longer. He knew the signs all too well, but nothing could have ever prepared him for seeing that side of himself in his godson, in James and Lily’s son, he could have never imagined smelling that much fear and rage on his little Haz.
He had to follow him. Even quiet muggle neighbourhoods like this were dangerous during this time at night.
He’d never meant to get this close, ever. Harry wasn’t supposed to see him, to know he was being followed, but the kid had eyes on the back of his head. They’d come to a dark alley, Padfoot hiding in the shadows, when Harry span around, wand pointed at his general direction. He startled without meaning to and the light must’ve caught his yellow eyes.
Harry took a step back and tripped over his trunk, landing right under the street light.
And then Sirius saw red. No wonder the boy had been so scared he’d accidentally summoned the Knight Bus, he surely wanted to get out of there as soon as possible, he couldn’t blame him.
But Sirius couldn’t help the way his mouth snarled and throat growled at the sight of his godson with a nasty greenish bruise covering his right temple, all the way down to his cheek, as if his head had been smashed against a hard surface. Nor could he ignore the sight of his cheeks sucked in, his eyes red and tired, his jeans torn and patched up and torn again. He’d looked nothing like James, then.
Petunia. So this is what that bitch and her bastard of a husband had been doing to him. These were the people Dumbledore had entrusted to keep their baby safe.
If he were half the criminal they’d accused him of being, he’d have torn their throats in their sleep by now.
Angry, defeated and feeling infinitely heavier despite being merely fur and bones, Padfoot tucked his tail between his legs and went to his sleeping place behind the trash cans as the first light of the day broke through the sky. In a few hours he’d wake up, eat some scraps and then continue to do what he escaped for.