Visitors

He began his way through the alley, towards the darkened cemetery in a dead part of London.

It all was a slur of time; the time taken from swimming from his isolation and appearing in a busy London market. He imagined swimming in the ocean as swimming in his own tears. Grown men don't cry, he told himself. He felt numb, void of the thoughts in his mind. If and when he could find a place to rest, he always took it. He had saved so much energy to make this journey, and it was so easily wasted. He had left earlier than he needed to make sure he arrived at his destination if obstructions would cause time loss.

It seemed as if he were being drawn by a most powerful leash from his heart. He never needed directions or to read any signs because he could blindly make his way to the cemetery.

He arrived days before his estimation. He would be able to rest up before the day struck him, like a shove in the chest. He lay under a branching willow tree, concealed away from the world. It was so easy to hide away when no one was looking.

It had been one year since they died. Since their murder, their demise, their downfall. There were so many ways of putting it. But in the end it could only provoke one emotion.

It was another dark and gray day that somehow seemed to surpass each of London's dreary days. The wind in the air held steady as it rusted the leaves off of the tall tress, to which each leaf fell to its end. The sun was kept away behind the clouds, not wanted on a day like this.

He remembered a year ago when he stood over his two friends, and promised to seek revenge. He remembered the chilling cold of their funeral; he remembered the people, the tears, and the cries. The end of their lives was a dreading halt in his heart. On that climactic day where he was captured and sent to Azkaban, he left his heart, lying next to Peter's single finger. And there it stayed. It was already trodden on, so no one picked it up and handed it to his mother. She never got an Order of Merlin on his acts of bravery.

He never deserved it.

He padded past the street where his downfall happened. His cold glances went unnoticed; it would have been hard for anyone to realize how he was here. He could hear the shouting of that day in his head, Peter's denial and false accusation. He tracked back to his trial, to Remus' cold stare and unbelieving strain. He could feel the vibes of shame from his friends, from his only true friends. The Potter's, who had kept him safe from his family for years on end, shook with sorrow as they watched Sirius' sunken face cry. If they could believe that he had betrayed their son and daughter and law for the dark side, after going to them to get away from it, then it must be true.

He would dream under the tree of days where he didn't know or care what was going to happen to him.

It was a week when he saw him.

He recognized him immediately, even past the changes a year had put him through. Remus had an old expression on his face as he gathered near the tombstones of his friends. He shook violently as he wiped away constant tears. He cursed to himself, and looked to the sky. He kneeled at their feet and let his tears fall. His watery blue eyes were weary and cast a look towards Sirius. Sirius backed away in his dog form and hid under the willow tree, surveying Remus through shaggy black.

He couldn't face Remus. He remembered his words when Sirius tried to beg him for forgiveness.

Those words never left Sirius' mind.

Remus left. He gathered his coat closer around him and drew in a sharp sword of breath and hunched on. His breath was ice in the air, and each tear in the soil froze.

A day later, Albus Dumbledore approached the gravesite with Miverna McGonagall. She was already in tears, with a handkerchief at her eyes as Albus cast a tearful glance downwards. Heavy skies loomed overhead, ad wind whipped fiercely. They stood there for quite some time, remembering the day three hundred and sixty five days ago, how short of a time and how long it seemed. They reminisced, about their school days, their marriage, their careers, their boy, Harry. Sirius was mentioned frequently, and he became restless in his confines. He could remember the distinct look on their faces at the scene of their death, their funeral, and his trial. Disappointments, pity, dishonor. Sirius sauntered away without making contact with them.

The following day, a strange and dark man appeared near the plots of James and Lily Potter. The grass died beneath his heavy feet, and the air dropped ten degrees with his trek to the graves. His pale face radiated from under the hood. The figurer threw himself on the grown next to James. On his knees he began to sob at once, and begging the earth for forgiveness. He lowered his hood and Sirius grunted in surprise. The man groveled in the cold dirt and withered in pain. His chest choked and he cried to the tombstones for mercy.

Peter continued to sob in a fetal position as the sun beat upon him. His heart was wrenched out of his chest, and all of the pain and suffering he had gone through rose to the surface once more.

Sirius, although hating the scum wailing in front of him, trotted over to Peter, and licked his hand. Peter instantly went cold, and his eyes beamed fear. Sirius tried to show affection for this murderer, as he wished he could have shown him before. Peter looked at Sirius and backed away from him, thinking he was going crazy. Sirius trotted after him, and Peter shot spells at him, cursing him, hating him. Peter grasped his arm in pain, and disapparated.

He had a most peculiar dream. Images of an adolescent boy flashed through his mind, as he watched himself fall backwards into darkness. He remembered seeing someone he could recognize, as if the woman with a sinister smile and dark black hair was a relative. Why was she aiming her wand at him? Why did red spouts of energy shoot into him, causing him to fall, and yet awake?

He was free.

Why didn't he run?

He was walking along London's streets, mixing with the crowd, free as a child on the first day of winter break. He never had to go back. Why did freedom feel so lonely? Why could he not run to Remus and be declared free? It is because the world is against me, he thought. I will never be innocent.

He had nowhere to go.

And he found his way back to the water. As a dog he swam, miles and miles back to Azkaban, his current residence. He passed the dementors on the shore and walked into an open cell. The cell locked behind him, and he huddled as a human and cried. In the dreary hole he used as a window, he could see the sun shining through. Once he mustered up enough strength, he thought, I shall spend my days at that hole. Then he fell asleep, and prepared himself for the rest of his life in this prison.

Remus walked the docks, watching ships leave the harbor. The misty midnight air surrounded him, and he drew his coat closer begging for warmth. He squinted to see a foggy light in the distance, and then a sprinting shadow, cascading across the wooden warehouses. He heard a splash into the water, and then the rhythm of treading it. He then reached the light and could see in the distance a dog swimming into the Atlantic... determined to swim to his death.