Black as Sin

Chapter Three: The Last Marauder

Christmas was never particularly happy in the House of Black. Perhaps it was Mr. Black's tendency to buy his young sons dusty books describing ancient and exciting (and illicit) potions without the ingredients to attempt them. It may have been Sirius's fiendish hexing of the ancient Black silver, so that the utensils sought to impale their users, or Regulus's habit of plucking the wings off the fairy lights when his parents weren't looking. Sirius suspected, however, that the lack of Christmas cheer had everything to do with his mother and her mood swings, which seemed to grow worse with every passing winter, and her insistence that she cook the Christmas dinner rather than the house elves--a situation which always involved much screaming, much burning of food that might otherwise have been edible, and the occasional dismemberment of an unwary magical servant.

Nor had the twelve Christmases spent in Azkaban been particularly cheery, either.

Not that he deserved better, Sirius supposed. It was a fool's hope, really, one of those magical Christmas dreams that would never come to pass. And yet--in just a few hours, across a couple kilometers of woods and field, in the tower of Hogwarts castle, a young boy would wake. Like his father he would stretch, yawn, and reach immediately for his glasses. Like his father, he would be first out of bed, jumping on the bunks of his dorm mates, wishing them Happy Christmas. Then he'd set to work on the gifts: potions kits and candies and-- He would see the long, mysterious package under the pile, would pull at the ribbon, tear back the paper, and Lily's bright green eyes would pop right out of his head.

An unfamiliar twinge of self-pride seized Sirius. He'd managed to fulfill at least one duty as a godfather. He had the feline to thank for that, he supposed.

"Is that tight enough? Too tight?" He finished the last knot around the cat's midsection and sat back on his heels to consider his handiwork. The clumsy package was wrapped in crimson paper with a gold ribbon, and was now securely fastened to Theo's back with several strips of cloth and pieces of twine.

Sirius had taken to calling the mysterious feline Theo--short for Theodore, after a favorite uncle--and he was pleased to find such an unlikely conspirator in his efforts. Tonight, Christmas Eve, Theo had come to collect Harry's present and deliver it to Hogwarts while the children slept. But delivering messages and packages was the least of Theo's skills.

"He's going to love it," Sirius declared with confidence, "and it's all thanks to you." He scratched generously under Theo's chin.

Looking back, Sirius wasn't even sure what had first given him the idea. Padfoot had been hunting in the Forest a week or two after the Quidditch match, when he found himself nose to nose with the strange ginger cat again. His companion began backing away quickly, spitting as he turned toward the direction of the castle. Cursing himself for his carelessness, Sirius had taken his human shape.

"Wait." His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears.

The creature stopped and turned, his eyes scanning Sirius up and down quizzically. Knowing what the feline would need to be assured, Sirius bent, extending his palm upward at the height of his companion's nose.

"I'm not a dog; I'm an Animagus--I can change from human to animal." The feline eyed him scornfully as if he already knew such things, but he approached Sirius and sniffed the proffered hands. "I'm not going to hurt you, or the children," Sirius assured the cat. "I'm looking for someone. Another like me--"

At these words the feline drew back, hissing again, a low yowling noise building in his throat. At first Sirius thought he had somehow upset the animal with his scent or posture, but that seemed unlikely. Maybe the creature had picked up on the hostility in his voice or... an improbable thought was creeping into his mind.

"Can you understand me?" he wondered aloud.

The feline stopped mid-hiss and looked directly into Sirius's eyes.

That was a yes if I ever saw one.

He tried again, his mind racing with possibility. "If you can understand me...er...paw the ground twice."

The cat's eyes never left Sirius's face as he almost insolently lifted his paw and struck the snow two times.

Incredible.

Sirius paused for a moment, weighing this new information. How much could he tell the animal? How much did the creature already know? Would he believe him? Had he seen Pettigrew?

This last thought stuck in his mind, pushing all worries of secrecy away. Excitedly, he sat down on the frozen ground, relaxing his posture.

"Have you seen another Animagus? Like me? Not a dog, but a rat?"

The feline hissed again, arching his back, hair on end. But this time, he kept his eyes locked on Sirius, and raised his forepaw once, twice.

He's seen him!

"That rat is dangerous--but I bet you already knew that--can't put anything past you, can we?"

The creature actually purred.

Sirius leaned forward, urgency gripping him. "There's a boy, my godson. The rat--his name's Peter--Peter will try to hurt him. I have to protect him..." He trailed off. The cat was looking at him curiously. "My godson--" Sirius cast around for something to help him explain. He grabbed a nearby stick and began scratching in the snow, emphasizing his words. He started with a circle. A face. "He's just a boy, a teenager really. He's got black hair..." Sirius scribbled in messy hair atop his circle. "And, and glasses." He drew them in over a crooked nose and a line mouth. "And a scar. A very distinct scar, like this." Sirius finished the hasty drawing with a zig-zag over the picture's right eye.

"My godson." He leaned back, surveying his sloppy work. "Harry." The feline was looking from the picture to the man and back again. Then he drew nearer, purring, and rubbed up against Sirius's folded legs, licked the hand resting on his knee.

Could he have seen him, too?

"You know Harry?" The cat responded by climbing into his lap, and Sirius suddenly found himself babbling, telling the creature about Harry, about James and Lily and their deaths, about his failure to catch Pettigrew, his arrest in the crowded street, and the horror of his imprisonment, the escape, his status as a fugitive, and his pursuit of the betrayer.

"I have to protect him. I have to get that rat. He's with a boy in Gryffindor Tower, but I can't get in. It's protected. If you could get him, bring him to me, or bring the boy..." In truth, he didn't know what the feline could do to help him, but for the first time in over a dozen years Sirius had an ally. A friend. That he was small, furry, and orange was of relatively little consequence.

After a while, Theo had stretched and climbed out of Sirius's lap, yawning, glancing back toward the castle.

"Wait." Sirius had a sudden idea. "There's something else you could do. I have to deliver some things, to get a gift for my godson. Do you think you could help me?"

And Theo had come through beautifully. He'd delivered the funds-request to the Hogsmeade branch of Gringotts, retrieved the money and brought the purchase order to the post. Now, tethered to the Firebolt itself, he seemed an odd accomplice, a strange Christmas Elf, running an extra errand for Father Christmas. But if Theo found his harness ignoble, he did not show it. He seemed content to be of service, and licked Sirius's palm gently.

"Happy Christmas to you too, Theo," Sirius replied, rubbing the cat's head with affection. He watched in silence as Theo disappeared down the hole in front of the fireplace with a flick of his tail that could have been a wave.

Sirius sighed again, imagining Harry's face when he saw the new broom. He pictured his uncontrollable excitement, just like his father. In all their Christmases together, James--whether at home or at Hogwarts--had been particularly exuberant. He winced at the pang of bittersweet memory as visions of his only enjoyable Christmases flooded back to him. The four Maurauders at James's parents' house, laughing and exploding spent wrapping paper in little self-incinerating balls. A Christmas at Hogwarts in the common room, celebrating the rare treat of an empty castle, a holiday, and a full moon coinciding. That last year with the Potters and their tiny infant, giggling happily as he was passed from lap to lap.

Many minutes had passed that night before Sirius, distracted by Remus and Peter's game of Wizard Chess (and more than a little Egg Nog), realized that Lily had charmed the mistletoe to hover conspicuously above his head.

"Very funny, Evans," Sirius had quipped, slipping into the old Hogwarts nickname, "as you're the only woman in the room. I doubt your husband would approve if I swept you away." He cast a sidelong glance at James, who arched an eyebrow and pushed his glasses up his nose with a strategic finger.

"Maybe you should diversify your interests," Lily returned, a twinkle in her tantalizing eyes.

"I think I will!" A second later, Sirius had snatched her son from her arms, and was placing wet kisses all over the baby's cheeks as the mistletoe bobbed above them.

"Easy there, you're making me jealous," Remus had said with a laugh, drawing himself away from the slaughter of Peter's queen.

"Godfather's privilege," Sirius taunted, tossing the squealing infant.

"Aw, Harry," Remus said in a mock-baby voice, "Uncle Sirius thinks I was talking to him. Yes he does." In the brief pause, Remus cracked a tiny smile, then snatched Harry from the arms of his sputtering godfather.

Sirius glanced again around the dusty shack and shivered. The Maurauders weren't here, and of them all, Remus was the only one he could ever hope to see again for a Christmas. He wondered briefly what Remus did for the holidays, where he was, picturing his face-- intangible and transparent in the dim shack. Even that image didn't bring much company. Sirius sniffed and placed his hands over his growling stomach, then shifted form. Time to hunt a small rodent or two for Christmas dinner. His first holiday season of freedom certainly wasn't surpassing any expectations.

***

New Year's Eve arrived a week later without incident, a pointless, arbitrary holiday. Sirius scoffed at the idea of a New Year's resolution; he already had a goal for the coming months. Still, the students would all return soon, and it would be safer for him to get back to work unnoticed. He curled into a ball long before midnight, trying not to count how long it had been since he'd welcomed the change of years with a kiss.

***

Sirius jolted awake, every muscle tense, eyes darting around the bedroom of the Shack, trying to pierce the semidarkness of a crisp mid-January evening. Since Azkaban, sleeping--especially in human form--had been difficult, the memories flooding back into his subconscious. The brush with the Dementors in November hadn't helped. Often now they visited his dreams, bringing with them the images and sounds of Azkaban: mindless women and men wailing, banging on the bars, so that he woke in a cold sweat, sure he was about to be recaptured.

But this was different; this was no nightmare. He'd heard something.

Needing Padfoot's sharper senses, Sirius shifted form, straining to recapture the sounds. There they were again. Footfalls. Coming from the passageway to the Willow far below.

No one knows about that passage!

Without time to make a clean departure, Padfoot darted for the bedroom doorway. He had to at least see who the intruder was. With any luck, he could produce ghostly enough noise to turn away a misdirected student.

Barely breathing, he crept down the staircase and pressed his body against the wall. Snout low to the ground, Padfoot peered through the doorway that led to the main room, keeping his eye fixed on the hole in the floor just in front of the fireplace.

Padfoot's sensitive nose caught the familiar smell of his visitor long before his eyes saw him. Coming from Hogwarts? Impossible! But there was no mistaking that smell. He would know the man anywhere, no matter how many years stood between them.

Moving with the swift confidence of familiarity, Remus Lupin pulled himself from the hole, dusted his robes with unnecessary vigor, and surveyed the room before him.

Padfoot stood immobilized.

The man's hair was clipped shorter and greying, streaks radiating from his temples. His face, from what Padfoot could see, was lined with worry, or anger, or age. Brows drawn together, lips a hard line, jaw pressed a little too far forward. He looked older, much older than his mid thirties. There was a grey, haggard look about his skin, stretched across the bones of his face and hands. Remus's robes, too, were greying, faded, and poorly mended. Padfoot was jolted by the realization that Remus had been just as alone these past dozen years as he had himself.

Yet there was something elegant about him in the dim moonlight of the shack, like a statue carved from ancient marble, every line solid, crisp as the January air.

This was no memory, no conjured imagination. He was real.

He was also one of only two living men who could see through Sirius's disguise. And he was certainly the only person who could recognize and report Padfoot as more than a stray, as a fugitive. Still, Padfoot was forced to exercise incredible restraint to keep his tail from thumping the floorboards. He'd never been so happy to see someone in his life.

Remus was breathing hard, and not from the brisk walk through the tunnel. Padfoot could smell fury and grief, which confirmed what he saw in Remus's face, his posture. He was rigid, his shoulders held in taut defiance, but his clenched hands trembled slightly as he fought to control the emotion within him.

Padfoot held his breath, keeping his body still against the wall. Why did he come here?

Remus exhaled sharply, righted a beaten wooden chair, and sank into it. He placed his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, shoving long fingers through his thinning hair.

Minutes passed, punctuated only by ragged breathing. Padfoot watched for several moments before he realized Remus was crying.

It had been a long time since he'd seen him do that.

He had been in the headmaster's office for several hours, and could still feel the piercing, disappointed eyes of Albus Dumbledore boring into his skin, making him wish he could wink out of existence.

The common room was mercifully sparse when he returned in the pre-dawn, only a few bleary-eyed fifth years clustered around textbooks and O.W.L. notes by the portrait hole. In the far corner, James and Peter sat, heads together, speaking in hushed, urgent tones. As he crossed to them, both boys looked up. Peter's expression was a mixture of fear and disgust, but James wore a look of grim concern.

Sirius had shifted uneasily before them, not sure if he was allowed to sit.

"Well?" James asked, his tone flat.

Sirius studied the carpet edge.

"What did Dumbledore say?" James pressed, raising his voice a little.

"He's talking to Snape now," Sirius said to the floor, aware that both James and Peter were trying to study his face. "He thinks he can convince him to keep it quiet."

There was a silence.

"Are you expelled?" Peter whispered.

Sirius didn't answer.

"Pad--Sirius," Peter said again after a pause, "what did he do? What--how is he going to punish you?"

Sirius swallowed hard and forced an answer past his lips.

"What?" James breathed.

"He's not." Sirius repeated.

"I don't understand," James said tonelessly.

"He--he said he figured that would take care of itself."

"I don't get it," Peter said.

"That's all he said about it." He looked up at their faces with a hint of defiance, willing himself to hold their gazes as long as he could. It wasn't terribly long.

He dropped his eyes back to the carpet, and forced himself to ask the question burning in his chest.

"How's Remus?"

James's voice went cold. "Not so good."

"Is he..." Sirius trailed off, trying to find a word that might approximate Remus's condition. Angry seemed too simple. Furious? Vengeful? Suicidal? He dared not ask.

"He's upstairs," Peter said unhelpfully.

"Oh."

During the pregnant silence he felt James glaring at him, until he was forced to look up.

"Well, Black?" James still looked grim, almost frightening. "Are you going to see him or not?"

Sirius shifted his weight again. "Maybe I'll just let him rest--"

"Maybe you won't!" James was on his feet, his nose inches from Sirius's, glaring at him through his glasses. The fifth years looked round exasperatedly. "Maybe you'll get your sorry tail up those steps and explain it to him. Explain to him how you could possibly have done this, because I sure as hell don't understand it."

"Snape provoked me. You know how he is. He said--"

"I don't give a damn what he said! I don't want to know. I'm not the one who needs to hear it. But he is. So you get up there, or... or..." He dropped his hands to his sides and slumped his shoulders, leaving the threat unfinished.

Sirius was not one for begging. In fact, he didn't think he'd ever really done it in his life. But as he raised his eyes to look at James, he knew he must appear pathetic. His voice when he spoke was whinging, weak. Detestable.

"I--I can't face him. I can't... please--"

"You will," James said coldly, his lips drawn tight over gritted teeth. "You'll look right into his eyes. You'll be a man and not a miserable skiving coward. And you'll do it now."

Sirius was dimly aware that in his six years at Hogwarts, he had never been daunted by the many long staircases. But as he climbed to their dormitory, his legs ached, his lungs seared, as if he were a much older man, climbing much steeper stairways. He hesitated for what seemed like an eternity on the landing outside the sixth-year dorm. Then he pressed his palm to the heavy door and swept it open slowly.

The only occupant in the room was in the far bed, covers pulled three-quarters of the way over his head, his back to the door.

Sirius stood in silence for several minutes.

"Get out of here, Black."

Remus's soft voice came from beneath the covers.

"Or say something. But don't stand there feeling sorry for yourself. You'd best speak up or get out."

Sirius took two hesitant steps forward into the room and opened his mouth to speak, his voice cracking over the words.

"Moony, I--I'm..."

"Don't call me that." His tone was still soft, factual, controlled.

"Oh. Er, fine. That's--I understand. I just... James said I should, er... are you okay?"

"What do you think?" Remus snapped, his voice suddenly changing, the closest to a snarl that Sirius had ever heard it. He rolled over quickly to face the doorway, and as he did so, Sirius sucked in a low breath.

What have I done?

Remus was crying. His thin, angular face was streaked with tears, and his amber eyes were bloodshot. He did not sob; his trembling lips were pressed together stubbornly, but his breathing was ragged. His chest hitched as he drew air in through his nose. He had a long, purplish gash across his cheek that Sirius instinctively knew was caused by a stag's antler. Whatever magic Madam Pomfrey had performed had closed the wound, but the spreading bruise lingered. Sirius stared at it for a long moment, trying to avoid Remus's eyes. But even the cut seemed to accuse him, to remind him of the horror he had committed.

After several moments, he forced himself to look into Moony's eyes, and immediately wished he hadn't. His friend was gazing fixedly at him, breath passing through his nostrils. And the eyes--there was a pain and brokenness he had never seen in them. All their six years, he had longed to see Remus feel something, react to something. Now he knew why the other boy kept such a tight reign on his emotions.

He couldn't trust anyone to bear them.

Sirius felt his knees weaken. He crossed the room without knowing how, and found himself kneeling at Moony's bedside, his hands clasped as if in prayer, his face buried in the bedclothes.

And he was sobbing, too.

"Moony Moony Moony Moony..." his words were a tangled mass of pleas, confessions spilling from him as from a bursting dam. "I'm sorry. O God, I'm so sorry... He said the most awful things, about you, about us, and I wasn't thinking. I wanted to hurt him, I wanted to kill him, and I never even thought about what that meant for you. O God! I didn't--I mean, I just didn't think...But I never meant to hurt you. I didn't..."

"I know you didn't." Remus's voice above him was choked, and when Sirius lifted his head, he saw that his friend was still crying, that nothing he had said had made it any better.

"But Moony, I--"

"I told you. Don't call me that."

"I'm sorry. I said I'm sorry. I'm sorrier than I can possibly say. I just wasn't thinking about you, about how it would..."

"That much is obvious." Remus's breathing seemed more normal, as if he were collecting himself, mustering the calm face he so often wore. But the tears were still flowing freely, like twin streams. "But after what you promised, what you said. You knew that's the one thing I was afraid of, and you would make me a murderer, a murderer! Over Severus fucking Snape? You want to kill the miserable bastard, be my guest, but at least do your own goddamn dirty work, you traitorous fuck!" He drew a shaky breath before continuing. "You-- you would risk my life--I'd be put down like an animal!--and James's, and Peter's and yours, all for a stupid load of insults? How, Sirius? Just tell me how."

"I--" Sirius found he didn't have an answer.

And now he really was begging, his chest aching with each gasping breath. He didn't know how long he stayed there, his knees numb on the cold floor. All he knew was that he was standing on a cliff, about to lose the only people he cared about, the only true family he'd ever known. Anything, he'd give anything. Just one more chance, and he would never let them down. He'd never hurt Moony--or Prongs, or Wormtail--ever again.

Yeah right.

Now as then, Padfoot longed to cross the shack's main room and offer the only healing he could. He wanted more than anything curl at Moony's feet and press his nose to his old friend's palm. He longed to bathe the unseen wounds, lick them clean, and curl in solidarity against Remus's chest until--like that morning a lifetime ago--in the warm closeness of body heat and the spent exhaustion of their shared tears, they fell asleep.

But he'd lost that right, if he'd ever had it, the night James and Lily died.

Finally, Remus sat back, passing a trembling hand over his eyes to pull away the tears. He wiped his palm on his knees and drew a shaking breath. Exhaling slowly he stood, making his way around the hole in the floor.

Padfoot knew what he was looking at.

Remus halted just to the right of the fireplace, gazing fixedly at the window frame. He stretched out his hand and ran his long fingers across the wood, caressing the carved letters just as Sirius had. Remus exhaled again.

"Prongs."

His voice was low, and choked. Padfoot flinched at the sound of it, both because it was unexpected, and because it sounded deeper, more defeated, than he remembered.

"He hears you, Prongs," Remus continued in a near-whisper. "Those damned Dementors. He remembers. He hears you die over and over!"

Padfoot pressed his body lower to the floor, his stomach a writing pit of snakes. There could only be one he to whom Remus referred.

Remus choked in another sob, and barely whispered "why?"

It took him several minutes to control his breathing again.

His hand slid lower on the molding, and suddenly, Remus's shoulders stiffened. He drew back from the wall as if bitten, and Padfoot could see disgust written on the man's angular profile. When he spoke again his voice was hard, clipped.

"Black." He nearly spat the word, making Padfoot flinch again, pulling his nose back from the doorframe.

But Remus didn't look around. He remained staring at the molding with revulsion, as if he could see there the face of the one who had betrayed him. He drew one last shaky breath and squared his shoulders.

"You so much as touch that boy," he growled through gritted teeth, "and I will kill you myself."

Leaving those words to poison the air, he turned and disappeared down the tunnel entrance with a swish of robe and dust.