Cowboys and Angels

moment two: as time goes by (January 1982).

Remus stood in the small kitchenette, sipping at his tea, and fought to keep himself from yawning. There was more to do, of course; of late there always was. It had been tricky enough paying the bills when there had been two of them living there, but on one salary, and that of a minor Archivist at the Ministry of Magic, it was a miracle Gringotts hadn't foreclosed the mortgage on him.

There were other reasons as well: following the arrest of his former co-habitant (he could barely bring himself to think that name, let alone say it), and his abrupt departure (deported to Azkaban, chained like an animal. an animal! Sirius!) some within the ministry had suggested his property should have been sold of, the money going to the state. It was only proper that such ill-gotten gains could be sanctified through their use in public works, like a new hospice, or orphanage, or paying for Minister Fudge's new renovations to his office.

Fortunately, Remus had two allies: Albus Dumbledore, who had accrued a certain amount of grudging respect during the covert war, and his own abject pathos. Some of the same who had wanted to sell his (their) house were also the ones who whispered about his motives. Surely you couldn't live with a man for three years and not know what he was on about, they asked? Surely you could see he had other affiliations, other motives? Remus couldn't have been blind, they reasoned. Unless he was in on it as well.

After roughly twenty hours of interrogation, Remus had finally broken, sobbing, to implore the Aurors in that cramped little room that he hadn't known, he couldn't have known what Sirius was really like: that he'd been too in love with love, and the idea that someone actually loved him - him! a werewolf, a moon-driven freak - to scrutinize things too closely. Sirius always knew the right things to say, he'd told them, before making his final statement on the matter. The man I trusted above all others killed my three best friends, and I might have stopped it, if I hadn't been so moonstruck? He'd laughed, and the laugh was bleak, and bitted, and he regained some self-composure, wiping away tears. He could recall what he'd said then, feel the bitterness in his mouth, cool and matter of fact, tucked away, compartmentalized like everything else in his life. Gentlemen, it does not matter if you find me guilty and put me in Azkaban. For me, everywhere is a prison of the mind now.

He was released into the custody of Albus Dumbledore the following morning, and no permanent record of the matter would be made. Albus had helped him sort things out, and persuaded the Ministry and then Gringotts to transfer the deed to the house (and the whole mortgage) to his name. In return, Remus occasionally gave individual tutoring during the holidays to Hogwarts' students, either those who needed a little push, or those who would benefit from advanced study, and managed to pick up a little extra for it. As a minor Archivist (and at worst, one whose loyalty was now suspect, or at best, deemed a fool) he was offered hours when they needed something working here and there as he could.

Although not officially a member of the Hogwarts' staff, he mostly taught Defence Against the Dark Arts, his speciality, and was considering taking a leap and perhaps doing further study in the area. The numbers were rounded out by a few in Transfiguration, and Charms. Rather pointedly, there were no Potions students seeking aid - not from him, anyway.

One of his students' would be paying him a visit this afternoon, he realised. One Renton Quirrell, of Ravenclaw. Brilliant Defence Against the Dark Arts student, if prone to spouting theory. But still, a very good basis to start with. He would be doing great things in the future, Remus had decided. If he got the little push he needed.

Setting his cup down on the bench, he walked out into the living room, hands placed on his hips, and sighed somewhat theatrically at the bags and boxes placed in the corner. He'd finished the clean out about three days ago: all of...and he admitted it now, it was Sirius' he was hiding from, the ghost in the walls, the spirit in the air...his stuff that had been left behind, every trace that the house had been lived in by two people, that two people had shared, commiserated, loved. Three days, and he still couldn't bring himself to burn them, as he knew he should.

Remus heard the rain begin to patter on the windows; he'd read Dante's Inferno many times, and known in his mind where the murderers and thieves and liars were supposed to go, in hell.

But what about those who loved them?

moment three: a song for the lonely (March 1982)

Sirius curled himself up on the hard bunk, and shivered. Although the air around was not overwhelmingly cool, a chill had already gripped his heart and soul, far beyond any cold wind. He could feel them pacing, trapped by wards and spells, confined by the task set upon them. How they hungered! They could recognise their own deficiency, and so sought to drain the spirit from those around them, to reduce everyone to their level. Just so they would no longer feel that void within, because there would be nothing different to make it different.

He curled up emotionally and physically, trying to buffet himself from the onslaught upon his mind. He could feel them, icy tendrils brushing against his mind, calling to him, imploring he just...remember. What he'd seen that night, the horror of it, James and Lily, dead, limp, looking as if they'd just gone to sleep, and how he'd howled out his rage then. The hunt. Peter. No place left to hide, and then...he'd been taken, without the strength or will to defend himself. No trial, of course - he was too dangerous.

Yet it was his fault. He'd been the one who'd set them on that crazy path, the one who encouraged secrets to be kept and dragged Peter through things he wasn't ready for. He should have seen the resentment there, and faulted himself for it. The uncertainty, the desperation in the smaller boy. He, who always prided himself on being able to read people, had ignored the one person he'd always hurt, because he'd never cared, and that lack of compassion had left James and Lily, and Remus alone.

No. Mustn't think of Remus. He could feel the tendrils sharpen, slicing through memory, through the past, cutting deep into his soul, and he forced his mind away with a jerk. This was their deviousness, always. Dementors fed on positive emotions: happiness, love, joy, so their very presence radiates a kind of despondent gloom, driving one back in the darkest corner of your soul. If you tried to fight - and Sirius had known not to fight, not to challenge, he kept silent and quiet and did not speak - tried to summon joy and hope and strength then the Dementor would feed, and rob you of it.

Remus had taught him that - NO! musn'tthinkofremus. musn'tthink. no. notremus. hecouldnotletthemgetremus. Rocking gently on the hard bench, Sirius' eyes were wide open, and drool ran in a thin trail down his chin. He'd fought this battle many times, and it was the hardest battle of all. Against himself. Fighting to keep from thinking, from remembering, the best of his life - the best of him - lest it be lost forever. Remus smiling laughing reading a book. Flushed after watching James play Quidditch. Talking a bit of homework through, although Sirius had done that more to spend time with him than actually need help. Sirius holding him talking with him kissing him. The brief years they spent as a couple, with tea and gentle intimacy and trying not to snipe at one another after a hard day at work, and making love on virtually every available surface.

Ruthlessly, Sirius extinguished each memory, pushing it deep down within him, and out of reach of the Dementors. He would not let them have the only thing left that mattered; he would not.

The attack subsided, Sirius feeling the tendrils give up and slowly retreat from his mind, but the presence just on the edge of his awareness was always there, waiting for him to make a slip, as he had in the past and probably would again.

As a barrier, he filled his mind with images of horror and sadness: most of his early childhood, the bitterness that had filled him as he'd seen James grow more and more 'normal' every year, and the realisation that he'd finally lost him to middle-class respectability and Lily, and the lack of someone openly filling the void in his own life. More than anything, he ran through that night again and again, from that terrible wrenching to the discovery, and finally, cornering Peter.

Before it had all gone wrong.

If he managed to keep that darkness up, the best part of him would lie undetected, free of the ravages of the Dementors, and so Sirius knew that was what he had to do. Even if Sirius could never allow himself to remember him again.

In the distance, someone screamed, and Sirius didn't let it touch him. People were always screaming, in this place. Sometimes it took them days to die; sometimes they just gave up. He'd seem them cart the bodies by his cell, limp, like sacks of grain.

If it kept it up, the darkness might very well drive him insane.

And when he realised that, he laughed and laughed and laughed, until the tears ran down his cheeks.