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Remus woke up consumed by one thought, and one thought only.
Sirius Black was innocent. He was alive.
It had been a long twelve years.
He’d woken up one morning to hear the news that James and Lily were dead, followed swiftly by news of the death of Peter, at the hands of his – well, he wasn’t sure what word to use now – his Sirius. He’d hoped against hope that it wasn’t true, felt the confusion overwhelm him as he read in the newspaper that Sirius had been sent to Azkaban. Why would he not just explain? He’d rushed to Dumbledore, begged for an explanation that was not forthcoming.
He’d moved out of the place where he’d lived with Sirius, and in with his father when the money ran out. Until his depression pushed his father away. He’d given him the money for a deposit on a small flat on the outskirts of London, where he had built a semblance of a life, working freelance on small writing jobs to hide his monthly disappearances into the Scottish mountains, out of the way of the rest of civilisation.
The smattering of raindrops splashing on his face brought him back to the present. He was outside. He blinked, rapidly. He was in the forest.
No. No, this couldn’t be right.
He pushed himself up off the forest floor, looking around, trying to piece together the events of last night. He ached – a dull, all-over ache that seeped into his bones – and he noticed a bad cut on his leg, his trousers torn.
It had been a full moon last night. He had forgotten to take the Wolfsbane potion in his excitement to get to the Shrieking Shack. He had transformed.
Shit. He ran through mental calculations, trying to ascertain whether he’d hurt anyone – Snape, or Sirius, or – Merlin – any of the children – but he didn’t know.
He gathered himself and ran back up towards the castle as much as his leg wound would allow. The sun was rising and the sky was pink-tinged. He half let himself hope that today would be a dawn for him; for him and Sirius, who had surely cleared his name.
In the castle, he headed straight for the Headmaster’s office, to find the Headmaster in the corridor pacing towards him.
“Albus,” he panted, “Sirius – I transformed and I don’t know-“
Dumbledore looked at him sadly. “Remus, I think you ought to come with me.”
The Headmaster led him to his own office, where he motioned for him to take a seat behind his desk. Remus obeyed, sinking tired into his chair and wincing as he did so.
“Well?” asked Remus, impatiently, “What happened? Has the Ministry pardoned Sirius yet? Where is he?”
“Alas, I don’t know, Remus. He fled the castle grounds last night on the hippogriff, Buckbeak.”
“But… he’s innocent, Albus. I saw Peter Pettigrew with my own eyes last night! He was the rat, Ron’s rat – he was the Secret Keeper, wasn’t he?”
Dumbledore inclined his head in a slow nod. “I believe you, Remus. But I don’t think the time is right for the authorities to believe such a story. Peter ran away again, after all, when you transformed. So the evidence remains solely circumstantial.”
Anger washed over Remus. “He got away?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Severus brought Sirius, Harry, Hermione and Ron back to the castle and met with Fudge. They were all set to perform the Dementor’s kiss.”
“They didn’t-” he breathed.
“No, they didn’t. Thanks to Mr Potter and Miss Granger, and a most inventive use of a Time Turner. But he is gone Remus, into hiding, and I don’t think it wise for you to follow him.”
“How can you ask that of me?”
“Well – I can’t stay here, now, can I? Not now I’ve put the castle at risk yet again with a transformation. It’ll be public knowledge, this time, I’m sure of it.”
Dumbledore didn’t meet his eyes. “I believe Severus has already revealed your… status to his House.”
“I don’t want you to go, Remus.”
“I don’t want to go, either, Albus. I haven’t got a choice.”
“Are you calling me a coward?”
“No,” said Dumbledore, softly, “No. Not a coward. I just wish things were different.” With that, he left the room, leaving Remus alone. He sat at the desk for a long time,
Remus stood in the dimly lit office, staring at the trunk before him. Its corners were scuffed, the lock a little rusty, but it had carried his life for years. He lifted his quill, stuffed his few belongings carefully inside: spare robes, books he could not bear to part with, a thin, worn cloak that smelled faintly of home. Each item felt heavier than it should, burdened with memory.
He paused, hands resting on the edges of the trunk, and let his mind wander to the impossible question: what now? He could return to his flat, take his things out of storage, and go through the motions of a life that felt hollow. A life where the laughter of his friends was just an echo, where every shadow whispered of Sirius – lost, wandering somewhere, alone.
Or he could try to find him. Risk everything. Follow a ghost through streets he barely remembered, through dangers that gnawed at the edges of his courage. But the thought of leaving the known, even if empty, for the uncertain pull of loyalty and love, set his pulse thundering. He exhaled slowly, gripping the trunk’s lid. The choice was his, but the answer felt like it had already chosen him.
Only one thing was clear; he had to move on again.
His heart ached in a way that no sleep or potion could soothe. Before, it had been like a half-healed wound, patched over with suspicion and grief, scar tissue hardened by the belief that Sirius had betrayed them all. But now that lie had been ripped away, and the truth – Sirius’s innocence, the years wasted in fear and bitterness – left him exposed, raw and trembling. Every memory of the past twelve years pressed against him like a weight he could not lift, and for the first time, he understood the depth of what he had lost. The life he had endured, constrained by lies and absence, had not been a life at all; it had been a slow, gnawing ache, and the pain of it throbbed as sharply as any wound he had ever suffered.