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It is easy to forget that Sirius Black ever existed.
There is only Padfoot, curled in on himself in the dingiest, draftiest corner of the room, whining softly. There are bits and pieces of Sirius visible, peeking through a too-thin coat of fur, nestled in among ribs that are far too prominent. His ears twitch when someone speaks, in what could be eagerness, consternation, fear, or a particularly potent mix of all three. He forgets his thirst for solitude sometimes at meals, and begs for a scrap of food until Remus tosses him something, at which point he yelps and beats a hasty retreat.
Sometimes, when Remus is exceedingly lucky, Padfoot will look him in the eye for more than a second or two, in a way that feels purposeful.
Sometimes, Padfoot looks at him, not past him.
Sometimes, Padfoot looks alive.
But everything in the world regresses back to the mean eventually, and so does Padfoot, collapsing in on himself like a house of cards, sitting hollow-eyed and ghostly in that drafty corner like he means to punish himself if the world won’t.
Sirius Black is sentenced to life in prison, without trial, without chance of release, on the 1st of November 1981. Bartemius Crouch Senior does the honors. His son has not yet been found guilty, his credibility still spotless, and he uses it to sign a death warrant for a boy whose only mistake was being born.
Remus does not hear about it for a fair few weeks afterward, not until he can be safely extracted from the werewolf pack, and his first reaction is pure, unbridled anger.
How dare Sirius kill James and Lily? How dare he betray them? And poor baby Harry, secreted away somewhere without any of the people who loved him! How could Sirius, of all people, want a child to grow up like that? Had he forgotten what he’d gone through? What they’d all had to watch him go through? How dare he kill Peter? How dare he take away the few friends Remus had managed to claim for himself in one fell swoop?
Had everything been a lie? When had the lie started? Remus remembers that night under the Willow, remembers being used for what Sirius called a “prank”, remembers being nothing more than a bloodthirsty tool in Sirius’ hands and thinks yes, I can see where this came from. Yes, I can see why he did it. Yes, he did it.
The anger eventually softens to disgust, but it takes months to mellow out that far. Months that Remus spends searching for work, bouncing from one untenable living situation to another, from one low paying job to another, barely scraping by.
He thinks of Harry often, of his sweet little laugh, of the way he gazed, eyes unfocused and mouth hanging open, at the dancing lights James would conjure for him, clapping softly as the colors shifted before him like a rainbow. Thinking is a luxury in Remus’ world, reserved only for the few, precious moments of rest he gets, in between his body breaking and shifting and working himself down to the bone to save enough food for the wolf to eat, but he spends his fortune on Harry, on James, on Lily.
It is his brand of penance, his final apology to three people who deserved better than him. If he had been a better friend, he would have warned them about Sirius. He would have made sure they knew what Sirius was doing. He would have made sure they knew it was Sirius that was the spy. But he hadn’t, too wrapped up in the idea of helping the Order, of doing something meaningful. Of his lycanthropy meaning something for once, for the right side of the war. Of stealing information right out of Greyback’s gnashing jaws and giving it to someone who would stop him, of poisoning the man who ruined his life with good intentions, of getting revenge--
He hadn’t, and now James and Lily are cold underground and Harry is beyond his reach for his troubles, and Peter’s finger and an Order of Merlin are the only things his poor old mother has to remember her son by. He visits Mrs. Pettigrew when he can, sits by her bedside and tells her whispered stories of what a great boy and man her son was, soothes her soul with stories of teenage indiscretion and harmless, reckless merrymaking. She was never as fond of him as the Potters, but suffers his presence because he is all that is left of her son’s friends (other than Sirius, may he rot in jail first and then hell second).
Her son died a hero, Remus always says before leaving. Peter was a hero, and she should never forget it.
He comes to regret those words later.
Harry plays at the kitchen table, running a wooden train back and forth over a well worn, flower- patterned placemat that’s easily twice his age. Hope Lupin had bought it at a car boot sale and Remus had charmed it to be near indestructible as a surprise, and here it was, having outlived two of the Marauders whose plates it had rested under, and Lily Evans besides.
Remus still cannot get Harry to stop being careful and it tugs at something deep within him.
Padfoot watches, sitting by Harry’s socked feet, eyes sweeping the room every so often like one of those Muggle security cameras. He looks less empty these days, but Harry has never met Sirius Black.
All Harry knows is that he has a beloved dog he calls Snuffles, who suffers kisses on the snout and far too much petting in the wrong places, who sleeps in Harry’s bed with him like an obscenely large stuffed animal, and licks his cheeks when he cries. All Harry knows is that Snuffles loves him, in a deep, overwhelming way that he sometimes struggles to understand. Snuffles soothes his nightmares away with a few trademark wags of his tail, hopping up onto his hind paws and howling in Harry’s face. There are no monsters under Harry’s bed, so long as Snuffles is here to save the day.
It has never occurred to Harry that Snuffles and Sirius Black are one and the same, that his godfather chooses to love him from the distance only a dog's body can provide. Remus wonders if this is for the best, at least for now. But some part of him misses how Sirius would toss Harry up in the air, the both of them laughing so loudly they could wake the whole world from its rest.
Harry has never met Sirius.
Remus wonders if he ever will.
He visits Sirius in jail to hurt himself, nothing more, as the one year anniversary of James and Lily’s deaths approaches. He has no reason to believe Sirius is innocent. Moreover, he has no intention of believing Sirius is innocent, even if proof might magically appear before him. There is too much pain there, too much anger, too much regret.
He yells at Sirius for as long as they’ll let him, letting the darkest thoughts in his mind take shape in his words, and Sirius recoils at each sentence like they are knives cutting into old bruises, opening barely healed wounds, flaying his skin from wasted muscles. It is after Remus is done yelling, chest heaving and sweaty, that he sees the empty look in Padfoot’s eyes for what it is.
“Are you even hearing me?” He yells. “Do you even care about what you did?” He spits at Sirius’ feet and Sirius remains perfectly still, unblinking. It reinforces everything Remus thought about him then, that Azkaban was nothing to him, that his friends were nothing to him, that their lives had meant nothing to him. “You deserve to be here. You fucking deserve to be here and you know it.”
He doesn’t see Sirius again, after that, unless the guards are watching.
When they are alone, it is always Padfoot.
The boat ride back from Azkaban is even lonelier with a silent, shaking Sirius beside him. Remus had the foresight to bring an extra jumper and an extra cloak, but nothing seems to still the shivering. He needs a good bath and a good meal. Some illogical, ridiculous part of Remus wants to believe that one good day is all Sirius will need to get better.
Some part of Remus wants to hope that, for once, his life will be so simple.
Sirius deserves something to come easily.
He is Padfoot again the second they come through the door, and pads right over to the corner of the front room beneath the window Remus has never quite been able to fix, the one whose badly fit panes the wind whistles through at night, and falls asleep.
Darkly, Remus wonders if it reminds him of Azkaban.
“I know it’s difficult. Seeing him.” Remus still cannot quite believe the state he found Harry in. After a few weeks of decent food and sleep, Harry is an entirely different boy, though he still tries to wash dishes and sweep the floor if Remus doesn’t stop him. He’s thinking of getting a lock for all the cupboards. He is tired of finding Harry cringing near (or worse, in) one, among a jungle of cleaning supplies, when he thinks he has done something wrong. “It’s got to remind you of things.”
Remus has a ball of flaming newspaper suspended over a cheap rubbish bin in the name of cheap amusement, and Padfoot stares right at it like he’s hoping it’ll burn his eyes out. Remus has gotten good at reading dog body language, these past few years. He’s had to. He doesn’t think Sirius is coming back at this rate, that all those years in Azkaban, alone and unloved, had broken something irreparable within him.
(He suspects the breaking began earlier, but that Azkaban was the final tap that pushed him over the edge.)
“Of how they were in Grimmauld Place, with--”
Padfoot lets out a loud bark, something in his eyes crazed and dangerous. His jaws snap, before he growls, teeth bared. He looks like the murderer some people still believe him to be.
“You don’t want me to say her name.” Remus deduces, and Padfoot sinks back onto his haunches again, the fight melting out of him. “Okay. I won’t.” He has a similar complex around Greyback’s name. If anyone can understand Sirius and Harry in this moment, it’s Remus. “I promise.”
Padfoot snuffles and snorts, slinking out of the room like he’s got something to hide, and Remus wishes that he would just say something.
Remus scrounges together the money to buy Harry a toy broom with money he’s skimmed off his last year’s worth of paychecks. He owes the boy something, after taking him away from everything he’d ever known (even if it was awful), to thank him for being so good about living with an ancient, boring werewolf. Six year olds are raucous, reckless creatures of mischief, but Harry goes quiet when he’s told, sits still during meals, and cleans up after himself. Remus curses Petunia under his breath for teaching Harry these things, but on the days his joints feel ready to tear themselves out of their sockets and every inch of his skin aches, he is thankful for Harry’s independence.
It’s not as if Sirius is any help.
He hands Harry the broom, expecting some cinematic moment of recognition, of realization, of joy. (He is expecting James, expecting the way James grinned as Harry zoomed around the cottage in Godric’s Hollow, expecting James in Harry’s face, in Harry’s mannerisms, in Harry’s gratitude.) Harry unwraps the newspaper and tentatively sweeps the floor with it, eyes welling up with tears, before giving Remus a single, shaky nod.
“No!” Remus says, and Harry flinches back, dropping the broom. “No, that’s not it. Harry, it’s not-- it’s not for cleaning.” He picks the broom up slowly, telegraphing every motion, and Harry backs up a few steps, watching Remus warily. “It’s for flying.”
“Flying?” Harry asks, confused. “Like witches?”
“Wizards can fly too.” Remus’ throat is tight, the words clogging it up like hair in a drain. “We use brooms to fly. Not the ones for cleaning, one like this.” He holds it out to Harry again, and he sees interest, this time, curiosity lighting up green eyes that would look perfectly at home in Lily’s face. “I can show you how to use yours, if you want.”
Within minutes, Harry is looping in slow, lazy circles around the room, careful not to knock any books off the mostly bare shelves, looking back at Remus every so often like he is checking that it is still okay to have fun. Padfoot ambles into the room, with the particular loping grace of slowly waking up after a long nap, and watches Harry make his rounds, something akin to mourning in his eyes.
Not for the first time, Remus wonders if dogs hurt the same way people do.
“I should’ve done better by you.” A soft, crackling voice says, sounding rather like a recording played on the radio, and it takes Remus a second to realize it’s Sirius, a few rooms away. Sirius, speaking. He has to be in his own body. He has to be human. “I should’ve never left you there. I-- I left you behind. You were only a child. You didn’t deserve what they did to you.” His voice breaks, shattering like glass thrown against walls, like he is finally speaking words that have left indelible scars behind aloud. “It shouldn’t have ended like that. It never should’ve ended like that. You shouldn’t have been alone.”
Remus walks as stealthily as he can, heart thundering in his chest. He can apologize now, can get a reply, can make sure they both see that he’s sorry for everything he said, for all the ways it hurt Sirius, for all the ways an innocent man suffered at his hands.
For all he claims to not be a monster, he hasn’t spared Sirius any pain.
He trips over his own feet in the hall and suddenly there is the sound of paws thudding against carpet, and Padfoot bounds out into the hallway to see what the matter is.
They stare each other down, dog against man, man against dog, and Remus’ heart aches.
He was so close.
They were both so close.
Padfoot meets Harry when Remus comes home with him.
All the Dursleys had needed was a signed letter from Sirius stating that he’d take Harry on, and Remus had delivered it, thankful that he’d aged so severely in the last half-decade since that she didn’t even suspect he was one of James’ friends. They’d all laughed when Lily imitated her calling them good-for-nothings, when things were simpler, sweeter, easier to package into strict definitions of good and bad.
When they assume he is Sirius’ butler, Remus keeps his mouth shut and smiles placatingly. Harry, fresh from weeding the garden, is thrust toward him with a bin bag full of meager belongings and too large clothes, no questions asked. Remus tucks away the anger and betrayal that rises within him and walks with Harry to the end of the road before disappearing with a crack into the afternoon air, reappearing in the alleyway beside the block of flats that he calls home.
Harry looks thoroughly confused by the events of the last half hour, staring up at Remus with undisguised awe and suspicion, and Remus explains magic right then and there, crouched beside a rubbish bin, at eye level with Harry. It is a hell of a way to introduce James and Lily’s son to a world that reveres him, but Harry hangs on to each word with bated breath, a slow smile spreading across his face like this is giving him sorely needed context.
What has this child already seen?
“I’ve got a friend, at home.” Remus says haltingly. “His name’s Padfoot, but you can call him anything you like. He’ll answer to most things, so long as he knows you’re talking to him. He likes milky tea and grapes, if you want him to do a trick.”
“Milky tea and grapes?” Harry’s voice is high and reedy, but bare of the innocence one would expect from a little boy discovering a brand new word. “At the same time?”
“Sometimes, when he’s in the mood.” Remus shoots him a smile, which is returned carefully. “I suppose you’ll have to find out.”
Harry clutches the bin bag tighter to his chest.
“I’d like to meet him.” He says.
Padfoot eats human food, but not from a bowl. Only if he can see it leave the plate with his own eyes.
He stands up with his paws on the table, sniffing around Remus and Harry’s plates before they eat. Remus tells the same tired joke about how they can’t go out to eat anywhere because Padfoot would die of mortification at not being able to check that their food was safe, but the pain feels new every time. He rarely allows himself to wonder what they do to the prisoners in Azkaban, but Padfoot’s little quirks tell him more than he wants to know.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, one night, after Harry’s gone to bed. Padfoot is eating grapes that Remus is throwing to him, their little parody of exchanging treats for tricks, a habit from their school years that they’ve fallen back on in place of real intimacy. “About the food thing?”
Padfoot pierces a grape with his teeth and it squelches in his mouth, making a sick, terrifying noise, while his eyes bore into Remus’. When Remus throws the next one, it plops harmlessly onto the floor. Padfoot curls up, head resting on one half-extended limb, on the floor, beneath the coffee table he’d put between them, like a test, at the beginning.
Remus reaches out to pet his back, and Padfoot rolls onto it, exposing his belly.
Remus draws his hand back, and they both stare at each other like they are strangers.
Padfoot and Remus are both at King’s Cross when Harry leaves for his first year at Hogwarts. They return home to their shared flat in silence, a man grown old before his years walking his bedraggled dog, sitting on the couch side by side, the space between them impossible to bridge.
They were best friends once. Neither of them try to remember that anymore.
“I should’ve done better by you.” He says, the words coming out of his mouth in a rush. They’ve been pent up for years. He should’ve said them the second Sirius was free, the second he was safe with Remus. “I shouldn’t have left you there.”
Sirius unfolds from Padfoot, all greasy, stringy hair, hollow cheeks, and haunted eyes, but he is here. He is showing himself to Remus again, head hung and paper-thin limbs folded in on themselves like some sort of sculpture. He says nothing, rocking subtly from side to side for a few moments, before the words explode out of him like the last dregs of beer from a crushed can.
“It’s just us again.” Sirius’ eyes flicker up to meet Remus’. The grey looks unbearably dull. “We need to learn how to live with each other.”
Remus nods, wide-eyed with shock.
“I’m sorry. For being away so long.” Sirius shifts marginally closer.
“I’m sorry. For not being what you needed.” Remus babbles. “I should have trusted you.”
Sirius shakes his head. “Forget then.” He says, the words scraping at something deep within him, bloody and painful. “Now. Do you trust me now?”
“With my life.” Remus says, with no hesitation. “With Harry’s life.”
Sirius smiles. Not the murderer’s grin he wore in his Azkaban mugshot, but something genuine, a shadow of the smile he once wore like a second skin at Hogwarts.
“Okay.” He says. “I can live with that.”