Chapter Text
October 31, 1981
9:17 pm
“It’s alright,” said Sirius comfortingly. He rubbed Remus’s arm. “I just feel like something’s a bit off. I’ll just pop in at Jamie’s and I’ll be back in a heartbeat. I know I’m not technically supposed to head over there anymore but I do know the address - it’s just a feeling, you know?”
“Promise?” said Remus, worried. The war was dangerous, and he never knew when a goodbye would be the last. Especially with so many of Sirius’s relatives keen on getting rid of him.
“Of course,” said Sirius. He kissed Remus softly, held him at arm’s length and turned to shut the door, before he stopped and turned to look at Remus. “I love you, Moons.”
“Yeah, love you too, Pads,” Remus said shakily.
It was raining outside, and the stars were blocked out by the clouds. Every time they were separated, Sirius had turned it into a habit to tell him that he loved him, just in case…something…happened.
Remus collapsed on the couch with an odd sense of foreboding. They would be alright, they would be alright. He was worrying for no reason.
But as he sat with his feet up on the couch, a copy of Lord of the Rings in hand, the only thing he could think of was Sirius. A chapter went by. Fifteen minutes. Another chapter. Half an hour. A third. By now, it had definitely been more than an hour. What was going on? Where was Sirius? Surely it wasn’t taking him that long? Finally, at 11 pm, he couldn’t take it anymore. He made himself a cup of hot tea - the only constant from before the chaos, in a war-torn world. He made one for Sirius too, for when he came back. It was, after all, freezing out there.
An hour later, the tea was cold and Sirius still hadn’t come home. He knew now that the only thing he could do was trust Sirius and hope for the best. So he trudged upstairs and lay down, trying to sleep, trying to summon what wouldn’t come.
He was cold and uncomfortable. He shifted back and forth, restlessness in his mind. Why was he acting like this? This happened all the time when Sirius went on missions. Did Sirius worry this much when he went on werewolf missions?
The bed was too empty. He couldn’t sleep.
Not without knowing that Sirius was alright.
Somehow, hours later, he fell into a fitful sleep that was riddled with moments of waking up, pacing the stairs increasingly more worried each time, and collapsing back into bed when Sirius didn’t show. In the morning, he was woken by an urgent knock on the door.
Sirius! was his first thought. He was back. Merlin, was he in trouble. What could have ever taken him so long?
He stumbled down the stairs and pulled the door open, nearly crashing into the doorframe. “Siri, I swear to Merlin, you little-”
“Remus?” said a familiar voice. Remus’s heart sank. It wasn’t Sirius. Then where was Sirius? Panic built up inside him. It had nearly been eight hours. It was their next door neighbor, a kindly old witch who was one of the few people who knew about him and Sirius being together.
“Oh, hello,” he said, trying to pull himself together. He quickly took note of her concerned appearance. “What’s wrong?”
“Have you - have you seen the paper?” she said. “No…why?” asked Remus. “Also, would you happen to know where Sirius is? He didn’t walk into the wrong house, did he?”
Her face was becoming grimmer by the second. “I think you should read the paper,” she said. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with it, Remus. Oh, love, I’m so sorry.”
“What?” She seemingly melted away into the background, patting him on the shoulder and hurrying off to leave him on his own after he took the paper. Staring up at him from the front page was none other than…Sirius. Sirius? Why was Sirius in the paper? His eyes drifted to the two headlines: “Voldemort gone - Potters gone too - Another Black in Azkaban.”
Was this some sick idea of a cruel prank? Azkaban?
“WHAT?” he said out loud. He sank to the ground, back up against the wall in the living room and ran over the articles. Sirius Black, aged 21…responsible for the deaths of Lily and James Potter…house in shambles…son orphaned…Azkaban…life sentence…Voldemort gone…murderer…Peter Pettigrew…Azkaban…life sentence…dead.
“What?” he said again, his voice breaking. “No. NO. NO!” he screamed. He couldn’t speak. His voice had left him and he didn’t believe it. James…Lily…dead. Peter was gone. They were gone. He didn’t even realize he was crying until his tears began to dot the page, the ink spreading slowly, the words blurring over. He was gone. James. His first friend ever. The first person outside his family who had made him feel truly appreciated. And Lily. His best friend, the one who’d always been there for him. Always. She was gone. Harry was alone. Poor Harry. What would happen to him? He was only a baby. And Peter…bless his heart, had tried to stop him, but had perished in the attempt. By none other than Sirius’s hand.
But…no. Sirius couldn’t have had anything to do with it. There was no way. Sirius wouldn’t. Not Sirius. Not his Sirius. He refused to believe it. And now he was in Azkaban. For the rest of his life.
He let out a fresh howl of pain. It was a scream of rage, and anger, and confusion, sadness, delusion, and his refusal to believe it. No. Not Sirius. Not my Sirius. Sirius wouldn’t - he wouldn’t -
Sirius, whom he had trusted. Whom he would have trusted with his life. Whom he loved.
He ripped the page with Sirius’s face on it out of the newspaper and crushed it into a ball and threw it into the corner of his room.
He didn’t believe it. Sirius wouldn’t. He WOULDN’T.
Would he?
Remus rumpled his already messy, thick hair and collapsed onto the couch again, clutching the newspaper. He read the article again.
Last night, time unknown, James and Lily Potter, 21, both well-known and well-liked among wizarding society, parents of Harry Potter, were killed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The widely feared dark wizard, a source of terror for the entire Wizarding World, seems to have vanished, as parties break out across Britain in celebration of his downfall. One-year-old Harry Potter remains alive, with a peculiar lightning-shaped scar that can only have been a result of the Dark Lord’s curse. It is a mystery how Harry Potter survived. The Boy Who Lived is a miracle for all of wizardkind.
Soon after the Dark Lord’s demise, Sirius Black, believed to have been his right-hand man, and a close friend of the Potters, was caught by Peter Pettigrew, another of their friends, running from the scene. Pettigrew attempted to confront Black, but was tragically blasted to pieces along with thirteen muggle witnesses and the London Main Street. Muggles are being told of a gas leak. Black has been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban.
No…no… he thought desperately. He leafed through the rest of the newspaper frantically…any sign it had been a mistake…any sign that Sirius was innocent…and found none.
Heat rose in his chest. Why? Why would Sirius possibly - how could he have possibly - why would he betray his best friend? Sirius had loved James like a brother. Why would he have killed Peter? And most of all - why had Sirius betrayed him like that? How could he lie to his face, how could he love him while so blatantly planning the deaths of all their friends?
Had he ever loved him anyway?
Why would he? He had nothing to gain; Remus had always counted on the Marauders’ friendship but Sirius had always been perfect from the start. But no, he knew despite himself that it wasn’t true. That wasn’t possibly true, of course Sirius had loved him. It was too real to be fake. Or was Sirius just a good actor? Had it all been false? All those nights, hiding out alone together, talking about everything they would do one day, when the war was over…their friendship…all Sirius had done for him…and James…and Lily…and Peter. Gone. They’d never meant anything to him. Remus couldn’t believe it.
Remus picked up the scrunched up ball of Sirius’s picture in the newspaper and tore it into the tiniest shreds that he could. Then he scooped them up in his hand and burned them.
No. It wasn’t Sirius. It wasn’t Padfoot. This was Black. Just like the rest of his family. The family he’d once vowed to leave forever. Black didn’t deserve this much care. He’d left him, and left him completely and utterly alone. He deserved to rot in Azkaban forever. Sirius wouldn’t leave him, not the Sirius he knew anyway. Sirius wouldn’t.
He kicked the wall but he couldn’t feel any pain. He was numb to it now. Too many losses, far too less time. Emotionlessly, he went about the rest of his day. Even the slightest mention of Sirius sent a shudder down his spine, and he had to take a moment to steady himself. It was as if a dam had constructed itself around his heart, and the smallest things would let it come crashing down, unleashing the barrage of emotion collected behind it.
He was waiting for the letters. From someone, anyone, anything that might explain this. Dumbledore, McGonagall, even the Ministry would’ve been enough. But none came. Absolutely none. He hated them. He hated them all. There was no one. All the people that had ever cared about him - that he thought had cared about him - were gone. Forever.
Weeks went by and Remus lived his half-life, not knowing if he was waking or sleeping, his thoughts always haunted by a spectral black dog. He hated that every time he even so much as looked at his record player, he would stop. That every time he saw a black dog, he would lose it. Every time someone said ‘serious’, he would break down.
But that was only the first year. After that, he was wholly closed to the world around him. There was nothing he could do except to live aimlessly. For the sake of it. Because he knew that James wouldn’t have wanted him to give up. Or Lily. Or Peter. Or Siri-. No, not Sirius. Don’t think about Sirius.
But what did it matter? Because they were dead. They were all dead to him.