Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why would you do this to me?
Remus swallows against the hard lump in his throat.
He can’t believe what he’s doing.
Does he really have any faith left in Sirius?
How could he? He killed Peter. He killed James and Lily, too.
But there’s a little voice in the back of his head, a seed of doubt - would he really do something like that? Sirius? Your Sirius?
What is he even doing there?
Do you even get visiting hours in Azkaban? What, do you just rock up and a dementor leads you to the right cell?
It’s far away, bruh. In the middle of the sea.
His patronus is wheedling - the wolf in front of him dwindles, because he has nothing happy to think of. But this is Professor R.J Lupin. He’s got this shit down. Despite the fact that he’s visiting the traitor who murdered his three best friends.
Back straight, his face is a cold, detached mask as he weaves his way through the dank, concrete aisles, holding himself together so as not to recoil in disgust from the dementors.
The next thing he knows, he’s standing in front of Sirius’s cell, and his face twists.
His best friend, behind bars. Matted hair, hunched shoulders, depleted figure.
His heart breaks.
‘Sirius.’ He says.
The prisoner is facing the wall. ‘Stop,’ he rasps. ‘Stop torturing me.’
Sirius doesn’t see him, doesn’t know he’s there.
How long must he have spent, being tortured by his own memories? Memories of…him?
'Sirius, it’s me.’
A groan. 'Shut up.
'Turn around, Padfoot.’
Remus can’t believe it.
What did he just say?
It just a force of habit.
But it’s been three years.
The figure against the wall turns.
The sunken eyes focus against the dark, looking at Remus intently.
Each of the boys have the same thought.
Is that really him?
And then, Sirius is clutching the bars of his cell, and Remus is struggling to keep a straight face, and nothing is OK.
Sirius’s face is lit with a mixture of elation and disbelief.
Nothing like the handsome, reckless boy Remus once knew.
Something in Remus snaps.
And the next thing he knows, he’s screaming.
He blacks out, but when he comes to, the words are still pouring forth in a rush.
'HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO US? TO YOURSELF? JAMES AND LILY ARE DEADBECAUSE OF YOU. AND SO IS PETER. YOUR BEST MATES, SIRIUS.’
Remus’s face is livid, flushed, and he looks like he belongs here too, because Azkaban is for criminals, after all.
At least then he’d be with Sirius, he thinks.
’I - FUCKING - TRUSTED - YOU!’
Remus had always been the most dangerous marauder, and not just because of his lycanthropy.
Sirius looks like a kicked puppy.
He’s recoiled, against the wall, clutching his face and matted robes.
He’s shaking, refusing to look at him.
He pauses, swallows, and then he speaks.
'I didn’t do it, Remus. I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.’
'AND I - what? Wait, what? What do you mean you didn’t do it?’
Sirius looks desolate. His eyes are spilling over with tears. 'I didn’t do it, Moony.’
The nickname - the old, fond affirmation - hits him like a punch to the stomach.
Sirius repeats himself.
'You have to believe me.’
But Remus doesn’t know what to believe, anymore.