Paper Wings

Fantastic

Tomorrow. Remus stood numbly at the edge of the forest. Before he left the courtroom, Minister Bagnold had announced that they would free Sirius tomorrow.

In the distance, he could hear the bustling sounds of a Saturday evening in Hogsmeade: friends gathering at The Three Broomsticks, sharing the day's gossip over a pint; shopkeepers locking up for the night and walking home; the clip-clop of carriage horses marching down the high street; the clink of dinner dishes being cleared away. Before him was the engulfing dark of the forest, the murmur of leafless trees, the rustle of small animals, and the dark, deserted road leading to the castle.

Remus wished, fleetingly, that he was the sort of man who hit things in moments like this. He contemplated a large, stalwart tree trunk nearby, shaking his head in frustration. He'd wasted so much time searching, convincing himself of Sirius' guilt, believing that Sirius deserved every minute in Azkaban, but now his stomach clenched and his head ached. He leaned against the trunk and closed his eyes, pressing fingers to his temples. The hours between today and tomorrow seemed so dangerously long. He refused to let himself think of the horrible things that could happen to Sirius before the morning.

He took a deep breath, pushed away from the tree, and set off towards Hogwarts. Dragging his feet, he hoped to reach the castle after the students had disappeared into their dormitories and only the ghosts still roamed the halls. Remus wandered the grounds, hands shoved deep into his pockets, kicking at tufts of dry grass. A zealous March wind howled through the branches overhead, stirring dead leaves and memories in the glow of the stars and the pale crescent moon.

Come on, Moony, just imagine the fun we'll have!

And all I have to do...

...is disable the wards before the moon rises.

Moony, we'll be there.

We won't let you get away.

Trust us.

Prongs and I can handle anything.

He crossed the clearing in which they'd once spotted a mooncalf dancing; flat, oblong feet had patted the ground in intricate patterns while pale, baleful eyes stared up at the moon. Remus tried to recall the creature's movements, but only indistinct shadows remained, detailed designs in the grass forever lost. He remembered only the stillness of the woods and grounds, animals mesmerised by the motion of the dance, a large black dog panting softly at his ear.

He heard a thump behind him. The Whomping Willow was either waving in greeting or trying to smite him -- he was never certain which -- and he smiled wanly at the tree.

One by one, the pinpricks of light in the castle windows blinked out, and Remus slipped in through an entrance on the side. A suit of armour creaked as it tracked his progress down the empty hall.

In the guest quarters, tea, sandwiches, and biscuits were waiting on a small, silver tray. Remus nibbled at the crusts, but soon abandoned them, Vanishing the food with a wave of his wand. The portrait over the bed tutted in disapproval. Remus pretended he hadn't heard. Slipping off his robes, he rolled his shoulders; the worn cotton of his favourite shirt wrinkled gently across his back. Remus opened the window, then closed it again. He yawned loudly and sat on the edge of the bed, turned down the duvet, and slipped under the covers. After rolling over twice, testing several different positions, rearranging the pillows, and thoroughly tangling the bedclothes, Remus stood and paced the room uneasily.

"There, there. Settle down," mumbled the woman in the portrait. She was reclining in a large four-poster, wearing a red satin nightdress that matched her sheets. Long brown hair tumbled over her shoulders, and there was a frown on her horse-like face. "I believe you have a letter." She pointed at the window, yawned, and pulled the coverlet tight around her.

Remus paused mid-stride and turned to the window. An owl waited on the sill, precariously balanced in the rising March winds, letter clasped in its beak. Remus took the parchment and sent the bird on its way.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he broke the seal and unfolded the message before he dared look down. It was from Dumbledore, co-signed by Minister Bagnold. Tomorrow. He was going. The Minister had granted him permission to go to Azkaban for Sirius' release. She had even arranged for a carriage to fetch him from Hogwarts just after daybreak. Tomorrow.

Remus' hands were shaking.

He considered running to thank Dumbledore, but decided that the headmaster might prefer not to be roused in the middle of the night by a grateful werewolf. He penned a brief note instead, tossing two sheets of crumpled parchments into the fire before he could express even a fraction of what he wanted to say. He folded the note and wrote Dumbledore's name on the outside. Then he packed his case, chewed the ends of his quills, and read the letter again. Tomorrow.

Nothing left to do until morning. He walked slowly around the room, lost in thought, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. He took several deep breaths, forcing himself to be calm and wondering whether he had any Sleeping Potions with him.

Then he jumped out of bed.

He opened a small compartment on the outside of his case and removed a single glass vial from within. Its deep green contents bubbled in the firelight, and the glass felt hot in his hand. He'd carried it around the world but completely forgotten about it all the while. The nameless potion. Habit had led him to buy it; all Order members carried it, their final contingency plan, their last choice should the worst come to pass.

Remus studied the roiling green liquid for a few moments, then made a decision. He tucked the vial safely away.

Back under the duvet, curled on his side, Remus eventually fell into a dreamless sleep.

***

The following morning, packed, dressed and ready, Remus was lying on top of the sheets and staring absently at the ceiling. Pre-dawn light filtered through the open window, bathing the room in soft pinks and yellows. A cool spring breeze blew across the bed, ruffling the hangings.

Remus waited. Soon. The carriage would be waiting outside so soon.

A brown owl swooped into the room and dropped a rolled-up newspaper on the bed. Remus, having nothing better to do, unrolled it and began to read.

There, staring at him in boldface type, was his story -- more or less. The last six months of his life had been reduced to a few black and white paragraphs in the early edition of The Daily Prophet.

Black to Be Released Today!

Sirius Black, the most infamous prisoner ever to be

held in Azkaban Prison, will be a free man tonight.

New evidence brought before an emergency

session of the Wizard High Court yesterday

allegedly exonerates Black and condemns fallen

hero, Peter Pettigrew, for the Disaster of

Lingonberry Lane last November. When Black is

freed, Pettigrew will take his place in Azkaban.

Black, believed to be the strongest supporter of

You-Know-Who, laughed amid the wreckage of

Lingonberry Lane when cornered and arrested by

members of the Department of Magical Accidents

and Catastrophes on 1 November 1981. Within

days, he was sentenced to life in Azkaban for the

murder of Pettigrew as well as twelve Muggle

bystanders, all of whom were killed by a single

Annihilation Curse.

The arrival of Pettigrew, alive and well, at the

Ministry of Magic yesterday cast the first doubts on

this sequence of events. Pettigrew's trial saw more

twists and turns than a dragon's intestines, including

a tearful reunion with his mother, an impassioned

defence by Bartemius Crouch, and a shocking

attempt by Albus Dumbledore to include the

testimony of a werewolf and childhood friend of the

condemned.

After hours of careful deliberation, the Wizard High

Court ruled that Black was framed for the crimes

and Pettigrew was guilty all along.

"I regret to admit," said a contrite Minister Bagnold

in a statement yesterday, "that the Department of

Magical Law Enforcement was fooled, even by

such a powerful Dark Wizard as Pettigrew." But she

was quick to add, "Have no fear. We caught him in

the end, as we always do."

Many wizards, however, feel that this is too

fantastical to believe. According to Mable Hornby,

who saw Black once in Diagon Alley, "I don't

know about all this codswallop, Black being

innocent. He has a shifty look if you ask me. It all

seems like some trick of You-Know-Who's. I say

he's still not to be trusted."

Or, in the words of Shirley Warren, who works for

the Department of Magical Law Enforcement

(Equipment Control Division), "Black's still guilty

in my book. The Ministry doesn't send you to

Azkaban for nothing, don't you know."

Evan Early, whose aunt is an orderly at St. Mungo's

Hospital, recently pointed out, "Even if Black were

innocent, he's a madman. If not before going to

Azkaban, he is now. Everyone knows that. I ask

you: is it really responsible for the Minister to set a

madman loose in society?"

Is it responsible for the Minister to set a madman

loose in society? Perhaps not. Nevertheless, the

dementors will lose one today. So mothers, keep

your children inside and lock the doors: Black is

back.

Remus crumpled the newspaper and lay back against the pillows.

A cough from somewhere over his head interrupted his renewed vigil of the Hogwarts' ceiling.

"I hadn't finished reading that yet."

"Very rude of him to put it away without asking."

"Especially as the delivery was not his to begin with."

Remus sat up and looked at the painting above the bed. The woman lay, as before, on her luxurious bed, but this morning she was not alone. A man stood by the foot of the bed, leaning against the post, dressed in black robes with green and silver trim. A Headmaster's badge was pinned to his chest, and he wore a large, ornate collar around his neck. Remus vaguely recalled his voice, but couldn't place it among the portraits he'd known at Hogwarts as a boy.

"Oh come now, boy, you don't remember me?" He raised one eyebrow in an expression that was intensely familiar. Remus felt his stomach contract.

It was Phineas Nigellus, a distant relative of Sirius' and former Hogwarts Headmaster. Remus had only spoken to him once, during fourth year, when Nigellus had grumpily waylaid Sirius in the common room, to relay an angry message from Mrs. Black.

You can tell the old bag to sod off, thanks. Sirius had earned three detentions that day.

Remus hadn't liked Nigellus then.

"I listened to your story the night before last," Nigellus began. "I know what you've done, but you crumpled up my paper before I could finish reading how it all ended."

"Didn't Dumbledore tell you?" Remus asked curiously, trying to hide his blush upon realising that he'd been watched all morning -- by one of Sirius' ancestors, no less.

A ghost of emotion passed across the painted features. Remus recognised the fleeting look all too well and was immediately on guard. It was the expression of a Black spoiling for a fight.

Sirius would flare his nostrils in much the same way just before--

Care to say that to my face, Montague?

"Do not ask impertinent questions," was Nigellus' controlled response. "Now, open the newspaper."

"It's all rubbish, you know." Remus lifted the paper, smoothed out the wrinkles, and began to scan the article again. Now that he was facing the portrait, Nigellus could no longer read over his shoulder.

The former headmaster regarded Remus thoughtfully and stroked his goatee. "It said they will release him today."

Remus nodded briefly.

"I wonder... Baroness?" The horse-faced lady looked up at Nigellus. "What do you suppose six months in Azkaban would do to a person?"

"Drive him mad," the baroness said simply, a smile playing on her lips. "I met a man once who'd been there."

"Did you really?" Nigellus purred.

"Always did the strangest things... He couldn't bear to be near the people he'd known before, so he ran away. I found him wandering in a dark alley. He was lucky I found him and not others...."

"You were always one to take in strays, love." Nigellus turned back towards Remus, face impassive. "Do you think he will thank you, wolf?"

There was a long silence.

"I didn't do it for thanks," Remus said quietly.

"That's the Gryffindor spirit," the Baroness cooed. "So tediously noble."

Nigellus continued as though Remus had not said a word. "Likely you won't even recognise him. Time within those walls, it changes a man."

Remus was silent.

"Or do you believe that nothing can touch him?" the baroness coaxed, whispering to Remus. "Not even the Azkaban guards?"

Nigellus looked hard at her. "I wonder," he mused.

"He'll be fine," said Remus firmly.

"Tend towards lunacy -- your family -- do they not?" the baroness asked Nigellus innocently.

"No, they don't. He'll be fine," Remus repeated.

"You have clearly never met Mistress Black," said Nigellus smugly.

"He'll be fine."

"He sounds so certain," murmured the baroness, shaking her head.

Nigellus turned toward look at her. "He thinks he knows my great great-grandson better than anyone." He smiled snidely.

"I--" Remus began.

"I watched them together, years ago," Nigellus continued, examining his fingernails, "though he does not remember seeing me. He thinks that they shared something special." He glanced back at the baroness, shaking his head. "I've seen it in countless young people. They cling so desperately to mistaken lust. Young people and love, like drowning men and rafts."

"In love? How sad," she lamented, sighing dramatically. "Though I've always said unnatural love is forever doomed. If what they remember were really so special, they would be together now, don't you think?"

"It will always end badly," Nigellus sniffed, "because they are oblivious to the obvious."

"Young lovers are fools," the baroness stated. "Nothing more than fools who believe they are less foolish than the fools around them."

"In my experience."

"Such is love." She shrugged. "I wonder what happened between them..." She ran one hand the length of her outstretched arm and languidly traced her collar bone. "And how it all fell apart." Her voice trailed off as she mused.

"I imagine it happened as he watched," Nigellus said, indicating Remus with a wave of one well-manicured hand. Blood rushed to Remus' cheeks as he met Nigellus' eyes. "Too frightened to speak when he saw the little changes, paralysed by indecision when he should have fought the important fights. We Blacks aren't subtle when we tire of... someone."

"It wasn't--" Remus paused. "That isn't what happened."

"As you say," Nigellus replied with a shrug. Then he added, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "After all, you understand him so much better than I. You occasionally sat beside him in class, tagged along for some of his more involved schemes, turned the other cheek when he sent the sour, slouching boy after you... There is no more meaningful understanding." Remus clenched his teeth, but Nigellus pressed on. "Why would he ever suspect you of treachery? I am certain he has learned his lesson; he won't use your secrets against you... again."

"Is that what he did?" asked the baroness, propping herself up on her elbows, eyes dark and hungry as a red cap that had scented blood.

"It is what a Black would have done," Nigellus said simply. "But, of course, I do not know. Ask the werewolf."

Remus set the paper down slowly. "I have places to be," he said steadily. Then he shouldered his bag and glanced back at the painting as he opened the door.

Nigellus was smiling. "Some houses don't release their prisoners so easily as Azkaban."

As Remus shut the door firmly behind him, he heard a laughing female voice comment, "Haven't lost your touch, Phineas."

"At least now we may read the Prophet in peace."

***

Dark. All dark. Thick air, thick tongue lolling. His eyelids drifted closed and the dark was unchanged. Open. Close. Open. Close.

Ribs heaved with exhaled breath, and still he watched, unmoving for minutes, hours, days. Thump.

The dog spun around, tilting his head, and cocking one ear to better catch the sound. Sinew stretched over wasting muscle, weary bone.

Thump. Thump.

He began to quiver, tail curled under him, pressed close between his legs.

Thump. Thump.

The sound cut through the muffled fog of fear. Thump, thump a steady thump, the rhythm of approaching man-feet. The dog bristled, back arched, head low, hackles raised. As the rumbling growl rose from deep in his chest, Sirius changed. A whisper of magic shivered through the cell.

There were rules by which he lived this half-life. Do not be seen; that was the first. They must never know that he could change. Do not forget; that was the second. He was Sirius Black, imprisoned for crimes he did not commit, for loyalties he did not betray.

And he would have vengeance on the rat; that was all.

He continued to growl, perched on the stone floor, muscles tense, eyes and ears straining. His nails clawed at the stone floor, and his nostrils flared as he searched for scents too faint for his human nose.

The footfalls continued, and Sirius reached to grasp a cold, iron bar. He pulled himself slowly to his feet and stood unsteadily on two legs where there should be four. The footsteps came nearer, thundering and loud, and his eyes reflected the flicker of approaching torchlight. His heart began to pound, not in fear -- he knew fear -- but in anticipation. This was something new, something to break the days... weeks... months of silence and screams. The footsteps pounded closer, booted feet stomping down the hall. His knuckles were white as he gripped the bars. Veins rose like blue ropes along his skin.

He saw the swirl of black robes. They stopped in front of his cell.

"Black?"

Black? Sirius Black. His name.

Sirius blinked. He had no voice, only a low, wary growl.

The robed figures drew their wands. Polished wood glinted in the dim light, and a round of silver sparks sputtered from one. Another pointed at the bars. A dry voice whispered one word, and the barrier disappeared.

Sirius opened his eyes wide in surprise. For a moment he stared and clutched at the air with his hands. With nothing to hold, he fell hard to the floor, cradling his head in his arms.

He knew what would happen next. It had happened before, so many times.

The bars would vanish, but when he tried to leave, he would not be able to move. He would open his eyes, and the dementors would be waiting, hovering, lapping at the hope of freedom. He would imagine their twisted smiles, beneath shadowy hoods, and a formless hate would burn inside him.

He opened his eyes.

The hooded figures before him were men.

No hand reached out or offered to help him rise.

But he could move.

He did it alone, one limb at a time. Silent and stumbling, he followed where the guards led, down rough-hewn stone steps, past windows cut deep in the rock and razor-sharp leaves reaching in.

Outside -- he blinked -- was the light of day. He hadn't dreamed of daylight in a very long time; he had forgotten that it could be so bright. As they descended, he heard the sound of waves hitting the shore. The water below was deep and blue. He'd forgotten blue.

They led him into an empty, whitewashed room and left him, shutting the door with a loud clang. Sirius shaded his eyes against the sunlight streaming in through a high window. His fingers cast long shadows on the wall. The guards had not used more than five or six words to get him here, but the new silence rang in his ears, and he tried to scratch them before realising that his toes wouldn't reach.

Now the door opened and another face entered. The man smiled, but his eyes stared coolly from under fine, short-cropped hair. His teeth were dull white; his robes were simple black.

"Sirius Black," he began. The words fell neutrally from his lips. "You have been cleared of all charges by the Minister of Magic, Millicent Bagnold. It is 9 March, 1982. Wait here. You will be released shortly."

He waved his wand and conjured a mug full of some steaming hot liquid. It floated in the air between them. The man nodded curtly, and Sirius reached for it. The glazed ceramic seared his fingertips, but he gripped it tightly. Heat. The sensation travelled up his arms, across his chest. A strange smell drifted into his nose, tangy and sweet. He lifted the mug to his face. Tea.

Shivering, Sirius began to remember. He let his thoughts run, dreading the moment that the black-robed sentries would descend upon him. He closed his eyes slowly, recalling taste. He tasted the salt in the air, the warmth of the drink, tea-spiced lips pressing into his, soft kisses, gentle hands--

He opened his eyes quickly, licked his lips and opened his mouth to thank someone, anyone, the man in front of him.

Only air came out.

He tried again.

"Thnk yu," he croaked his voice strange and rasping.

The wizard nodded and stepped out of the room, and the door to fell shut behind him. Sirius held his breath, staring at the space where the man had been, waiting for the cold and dark to descend.

He closed his eyes. They could have this bewildering, sunlit moment; they could have the taste and the colour and sound. But he was Sirius Black, and that was his. Whether or not this was a dream, whatever happened next, he was alive. He would survive.

***

Azkaban was inaccessible by Apparation or Portkey and had no fires on the Floo Network, so Remus rode north from Hogwarts in a carriage drawn by two shiny, chestnut Aethononian horses. As the coach lurched through the tops of clouds and into the sunny blue sky, Remus tried to relax, but he was as restive as he had been the night before. There was no room to pace -- besides, the floor pitched too erratically -- no sound but the rhythmic beating of feathered wings and the occasional whinny as the horses gambolled in the sky, soaring on currents of air.

Remus' stomach heaved uncomfortably and he chewed the ends of his nails. He did not know how far they had travelled, only that the sun had just crested the horizon when he'd climbed into the carriage, and now it was high above him. He removed the small vial from his pocket at least five times to make sure that it was still there, its contents swirling.

With a mighty lunge, the carriage dropped below the clouds and he saw the fortress for the first time.

It wasn't what he had expected. Rather than the black, crumbling walls topped with statues of leering gargoyles, the fortress was built from plain grey stone swathed in climbing ivy. Except for the bars on the miniscule windows, it looked rather more like Hogwarts than the prison of children's nightmares. There were even trees planted around the square before the entrance. The only black that Remus could see was in the massive wrought-iron gate.

With a shudder and a creak, the carriage passed through a magical barrier.

Remus' breath caught in his throat.

There was an unnatural hush over the fortress, punctuated by screams from distant chambers. As Remus neared, he found it harder and harder to see the sun, the feathers of the flying horses, or to hear the breeze blowing through the windows of the coach. Whispers and moonlight tugged at the edge of his mind. The pleasant rhythm of the waves against the island cliffs became an ominous thunder, then dropped into eerie quiet. The cliffs themselves became threatening precipices, looming over the churning fury of the surf. The stone of the fortress darkened until it was charred and black. Spidery cracks appeared in the walls, and the honed blades of Azkaban Ivy glinted menacingly. As the carriage circled the courtyard, the trees appeared to wilt before Remus' eyes, their gnarled branches reaching for him.

Remus felt his throat constrict. Sirius was behind those walls, had been behind those walls for half a year. Sirius had not seen the first snowfall that year, had not seen the stars at night. His birthday had passed unmarked, the New Year untoasted. He'd spent winter in the icy chill of the prison, shivering on a bare stone floor, unable to see the lengthening days or hear the waves lapping at the shore.

He would see and hear it today, Remus thought, and the smallest tingle of anticipation ran up his spine despite the fog of dementors around the island.

With a bone-jarring rattle and a clatter of hooves, the carriage landed in the square and Remus jumped out. He stood beneath the barren trees as the horses danced nervously in their traces, and he idly fingered the little vial in his pocket, breathing slowly and deliberately.

Above him, there was a harsh neighing and the beat of enormous wings. A second carriage clanked down beside Remus'; this one was covered in black lacquer with bars over its windows and the Ministry seal painted on its doors. The horses stamped righteously and shook their grey manes as a tall man in red robes disembarked and pointed his wand at the huge, iron gates of Azkaban.

What was left of the sun's light began to fade from the corners of Remus's vision. Several black shapes appeared on the far side of the jagged bars.

Slowly, the gate began to open, its iron hinges screeching in protest. The dementors parted and a figure emerged from between them, walking slowly, hesitantly, but upright, arms crossed protectively over his chest. As he stepped over the threshold, the dementors withdrew, and his head rose up. Sirius' eyes burned with sunlight. He stepped forward hesitantly and caught a toe on the cobblestones.

Remus ran to him, catching Sirius as he fell forward. There was almost nothing to catch; under the soiled robes, Sirius was little more than a skeleton. Remus could feel every rib, every protruding vertebra, and he was almost too horrified to look at the face that accompanied this frail form. With a deep, shuddering breath, he pulled back and looked Sirius in the eyes.

His skin was the pasty grey colour of the things that live under rocks. His hair, once so fastidiously groomed and shiny, hung around his shoulders in a tangled mat. There were deep hollows around his eyes and old abrasions on his cheekbones, as though he had fallen onto stone without bothering to catch himself. His shoulders stuck out at odd angles, and his shirt was torn.

Sirius had never worn tattered clothing.

Unable to speak, Remus buried his face in Sirius' neck and pulled him close.

Inhaling the fetid scent of mouldering cloth, Remus felt a rising swell of anger. He hadn't known what to expect, but now that he held Sirius in his arms, he vowed to destroy any and every person responsible for the shattered man in his arms. Just show him where to start.

Sirius' claw-like fingers dug into his back, a bruising grip that dared him to pull away again. But Remus did not pull back, did not even try to move. Sirius was innocent. Sirius was free. Even the dementors couldn't ruin that. The anger subsided, crawling back into its den once more. Sirius was free. That was all that mattered.

Slowly, they relaxed. Sirius' hands sliding cautiously down Remus' sides, his face pressed a moment longer on Remus' shoulder.

Remus had no words. He felt as though a large fishhook was caught in the back of his throat.

They separated, only inches, but it was far enough. Remus smiled sheepishly, blushing a little under Sirius' unblinking stare.

"Hi," he said quietly.

"Remus?" Sirius's voice was harsh, an escaped breath through cracked, split lips. His eyes were wide, disbelieving, pupils dark and dilated, eyebrows raised. His nostrils flared with every breath.

Remus nodded.

A discreet cough startled them both, the unmistakable noise of an Auror ready to go about his business.

"If you please," began the imposing man in red robes, "we prefer not to spend any more time here than necessary."

"Of course," Remus answered politely, finally finding his voice. He gripped Sirius' hand tightly, and they stepped to the side of the gates. The first Auror opened the door to the black carriage, and a second escorted the prisoner out.

Peter's face was greyish-green, his eyes puffy and terrified. He was hunched over, small and shivering, still wearing the robes Dumbledore had given him. He blinked and squinted in the dim daylight as though it hurt his eyes. The Aurors pushed him ahead. He looked up at Remus and Sirius as he stumbled past.

"My friends, my old friends," he squeaked, a look of pure terror on all his features. "Help me?" he whispered.

He asked, Remus thought, chest tightening. He asked too late. He squeezed Sirius' hand and felt the brittle bones creak in his grip. The damage was done. Anger threatened to engulf him once more.

Azkaban's newest prisoner shook in his bonds, still imploring Remus with his eyes.

Remus wanted to hit Peter, shake him, knock him to the ground and demand he explain why he did what he did.

But he was rooted to the spot.

Sirius was forgiven and standing less than a breath away.

And the friend Remus had travelled the world to save was condemned to Azkaban instead.

Remus felt something snap deep inside; he remembered three smiling faces.

Remus, look, look! It was really hard, but I did it, too!

He felt Sirius tense beside him and glanced quickly over. Tendons stood out in Sirius' neck and an artery pulsed at his temple. His eyes bore holes into Peter's head, but he said nothing and he did not move.

The two Aurors pushed Peter slowly past. He could hardly move, bound as he was by fear and anti-transformation jinxes.

Remus gripped Sirius' hand tighter. He knew what he wanted to do, but the decision was not his alone.

With his free hand, Remus withdrew the small vial from his pocket. Inside, the green liquid frothed. Any wizard would know it instantly. Liquid Death, they called it, when they dared name it at all: quick, in theory painless, and so potent that just a drop was enough.

Remus held the vial up surreptitiously and raised his eyebrows.

Sirius stared at it for a long moment, then looked back at Remus, eyes hard as ice. He shook his head -- ever so slightly -- from side to side. Remus persisted, giving him time to change his mind, time that they didn't have.

Sirius closed his eyes, lashes just brushing his wasted cheek, his jaw clenched shut.

Remus began to lower the vial into the folds of his robes. He looked at Peter's sagging back, at Sirius' set jaw, then made the decision for both.

He released Sirius' hand and bolted forward.

"Peter, wait!" he called. The Aurors paused, allowing Peter a final goodbye before leading him into the darkness. Now, with Aurors shifting uncomfortably and averting their eyes, Remus stood in front of Peter for the last time.

"Why?" he asked.

Peter wouldn't meet his eyes. He shrugged trembling shoulders and shuffled his feet on the stones.

Remus reached down for Peter's hand, though his skin crawled to touch it. He pressed the little vial into Peter's curled fingers. Peter saw the colour for just a moment before slipping it into his robes. Remus did not wait for a response. The Aurors hadn't noticed, and they would not search Peter again, having stripped him of everything but the clothes on his back the night before. The potion was his, should he choose to use it.

Remus knew he had shown Peter greater mercy than than the traitor deserved.

Sirius knew it, too. As the gate squealed on its hinges behind them, he shot Remus a look of deepest hurt and loathing. Wordlessly, they crossed the courtyard and climbed into the carriage.