Rating: PG

Disclaimer’s: I am not affiliated with Harry Potter nor do I profit from the franchise or books.

Dedication: For You

It’s not known if he’s dead or alive. I’m watching from the dingy, pebble-stone road that I can only describe as bleak and barren. The streets in these quarters are eerily quiet: it's as if nothing lives within a mile of it, all except emptiness, that is, and the ruthless eye of despair. I pause before I enter. The small, muggle town flat, is all he can stand now, away from wizarding society. The alley is dark: confined from the velvet flurry of imperial cloaks, the mysterious languor of wizarding smoke parlours and the bright brilliance of magical sunsets. No birch or willow could be found in such abysmal conditions, only the creaking, loneliness of rotting wood. This was where murderers were banished to, restrained from the wizarding community and left to rot and die.

As I stare into the smooth flash of window, that’s slightly open and filtering in the ice of the blustery wind, I wonder how he had the effort to ebb it open. Above the frosty, pale ledge of wood, stands the resilience of a man that disappeared a long time ago. A cool, mild breeze softly bristles against my cheeks and as the moon pierces her harsh glow, upon the dusty doorstep, I shiveringly open the door. My trunk sits heavily beside me, and with a flick of the wrist, it levitates above the ground. Tinkling like chains, the tiny silver keys glisten in the tremors in my hand, and cautiously I rattle open the door, and enter.

Silence drowns me.

The oak, spiral staircase: battered, dark and eaten soft with woodworm is as I remember it the last time. Nothing has changed. Life has barely stirred and as I lit a softly, glowing lamp of light from the end of my wand, I stir towards the structure of shadows. My trunk follows me silently, as I creep up the crumbling, stairs and I bow my head low to escape the veiled spider webs that hang a few inches from my face.

At last, I am met with the hallway. I don’t what it is about dark hallways that frighten me. It’s a journey, as if you’re traveling through a vein in your head and reality is hard to disfigure from insanity. Whenever I see that door: staring, hypnotic and smouldering like a burning flame in the mid-set of winter, I remember the night it had happened. The night which changed everything. It is a door. A door: a subversive division between the unknown and the rational.

My head aches, pounding from the wooziness of my travel. I feel my flesh tighten and jolt, as I stagger towards the door. I pause before I enter. My blood is no longer warm, but thinned to air and a heady sensation hinders my breathing. I fasten my eyes onto the hand-carved lion of the doorknob: all eyes, and claws and life captured within it, while a wave of grief heaves painfully in the upper parts of my torso and throat. It is hard to keep balanced when all you want to do is cry.

I turn the brass, dirty doorknob and with valour, might and cruelty, I click it open and smile.

"How are you?" I ask brightly.

He hasn’t moved since the last time I saw him. Those dull eyes meditate upon a mulberry stain that pools beneath his feet; he lifts his head and loosens his grip on the moss-green velvet, and parts his mouth to let air in and out. Breathing is an effort. Blood is no longer blood, when it’s clogged with emptiness. His pale grey, emaciated cheeks and unshaven face makes him look twice his age. I wonder how long it’s been since he’s changed his clothes. The mauve-grey linen is sodden with grime and creased with age. The mulberry stain by his feet was the spill of wine. There were blisters, on the circlets of his fingertips, perhaps from trying to pick up the shattered glass.

"Paddy..? Pads? It’s me, Moony..." I say gently, keeping the tremble in my voice low.

I cannot help bit stare at him, despite my efforts to look away.

He does little now.

They got him.

I was too late.

I step towards his chair. It takes him a while to recognise my presence. I try to be cheerful, yet it’s painful to smile when you are looking at the thing that hurts you most. The room is stale and frosty with the incoming breeze.

"Merlin! It’s cold in here! I should shut the window..." I wince at my own patronising tone. I know it will do no good. Nothing helps.

Sirius’s gaze, crookedly follows my every step as I sweep towards the window, and with brazen strength, I shut it and turn to see his reaction. It is the same as before, except this time his eyes meditate upon me. I awkwardly glance around the one room apartment, hoping for a glimpse of distraction.

He has eaten little. By the dark-stain table that sits before him, I see the remnants of burnt crumbs scattered over a pale-plastic plate. He has not eaten the subject wholly: the meat is flesh pink and the shell of breadcrumbs lay like shrapnel, as if it were an explosion of warfare.

He has made an effort to feed himself at least. By the white, grimy kitchen paneling, the dusk-pale working tops of the sink there are half open tins, the lids unfurled. Magic has no use for him now. You have to have an imagination for magic: the ability to transform your thoughts into reality. Sirius no longer has thoughts or dreams. There have been debates recently in the wizarding papers, discussing the issue of whether dementor victims are conscious beings or not. I wonder if they are even human.

"Are you hungry..?" I ask in a strained bright voice.

Sirius keeps his eyes fixed on me, blinks and slowly nods his head. I tend to the half open cans and pour the contents into a bowl from the cupboard. The red, lumpy substance oozes out into bowl and I wonder how he could stomach such dirt, but then I realised he could stomach anything and it wouldn’t make a difference.

It would be Christmas now at Hogwarts. Every hall would be alit with gold and glowing warmth from the tiny little fairy lights that would meditate from the ceiling. There would be a thousand Christmas trees, each giant and magnificent, decorated with silk bows that change colour, lion gold fires which roar with heat and the smug smells of fresh butter cookies, which melt in your mouth and cling onto your clothes. Most of the staff stays at Hogwarts for Christmas but I asked Dumbledore for special leave to look after Sirius for the holidays.

It suddenly occurred to me that I had several white chocolate-chip muffins in my trunk that I had asked the house elves for. I had a terrible sweet tooth, since I was a child that made me weak at the prospect of sugary, sweet goods. I had also a bar of Bertie Botts Beans in my side pocket. I wondered if he could remember the times when we used to take all the worst flavoured ones out and offer them to Snape. I muse sadly over the thought, letting it melt and simmer in my mind like butter.

"Would you like some chocolate?" I asked, lifting the block in my hand, like a master would do to a dog.

Sirius barely responded, but I opened his mouth partly and slotted the chocolate in before shutting it again. He moved his bottom jaw sluggishly: swirling the piece of chocolate in his mouth as if were a marble and swallowed dryly. I beamed at him approvingly.

I tap the kettle with my wand and it begins to hiss and bubble. I need a cup of tea and so does Sirius from the cold. Removing my cloak, I unclasp my heavy trunk that landed itself beside the bed and take out the squashed muffins. Fixing them up on a plate, I sit opposite Sirius at the table and pick at my food modestly. Sirius turns his head to the muffins. I lift one and wave one in front of his nose. He takes it and bites.

To my greatest shame, I feel repulsed. The crumbs shower down his chapped, ashen lips and his mouth makes sticky, slapping noises as he chews. I take a clean tissue from my pocket and dab it his mouth with it. He chews on that as well.

After I had made tea and I ate two white chocolate muffins (Sirius ate one and a half) I made towards cleaning the place. I am not a neat person by nature, but I needed a distraction. I neatened the cupboards, washed the plates and put the rubbish in the bin. The bad thing about magic is that housekeeping is unbearably easy and quick.

Sirius hadn’t spoken and sadly, I took out a picture of Harry Potter from my trunk and settled by the table opposite him. He was expressionless as I showed him the picture of the bright, Gryffindor boy who had now graduated and was heralded as a National War hero.

"See, Pads..? It’s your god son, Harry..."

He takes the photo in his hands, but doesn’t hold it for long before he drops it. I bend down to swoop it off from the floor.

"He is doing very well... He misses you a great deal..."

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth. Harry thought Sirius was dead. We told him that, to hide what had really happened. In a task to recover the missing spies of the Phoenix Order, Sirius was set on by dementors, and none showed mercy to his innocence. I had seen it happen. I was there. I could have stopped them, but I was too late. His happiest memories were buried under anger and vengeance and he wasn’t capable of the Patronus Charm. I try not to think about Pettigrew, the rat who betrayed us all. His body was never found but I believe his body lies rotting in some grave that he doesn’t deserve.

After telling Sirius more about Harry: the boy who he would have died to protect, the son of his best friend, the boy who taught him to love again, I yawned and rubbed my eyes.

"It’s getting late." I said quietly, pushing the hair back from my eyes. ‘Do you want to sleep?"

In my head I knew it was only around eight thirty, but I was exhausted from traveling and I was getting tired of the sound of my own voice. I put my hand on his shoulder and ask him where he keeps his bed clothes. It occurs to me that he doesn’t bother with them, and cease my inquiry.

There is only one double bed, which lies unmade in the far left corner. We would have to share. He recognises my intention for him and for the first time, he stands from the chair and warbles towards the bed heavily. He is wearing socks which are holed in the front and back. I think about giving him a pair of mine, but I realised that mine were in no better than his. He sits on the foot of the bed and lies down rigidly in the centre, like a steel structure.

Unpacking my trunk, I take out my blue pinstripe pyjamas and begin to undress. I drape my robes over the head of the chair and hurriedly shake on my night clothes. A small bathroom lies on the left of the room and making my toilet swiftly I am soon ready to sleep.

I travel to the bed and heave Sirius’s body to the right of the bed, next to the wall and I lie down beside. I pull up the giant duvet, rumpled, crease and smelling a little of dog, I wrap it round us heavily and sigh.

"Good night, Sirius." I extinguish the light with my wand and quietly, I try and make myself comfortable against the hard mattress and lumpy pillow. His suffering sussurates through the mattress and at once I feel a painful thought pound through my mind. This reminded me of Hogwarts when we were children. We used to nuzzle up together on particularly cold nights or when I was frightened of the moon. Except, that time it was Sirius who wrapped his arms round me then. As I clung onto him gently, it occurred to me that he was the only old friend I had left, and yet, I couldn’t bear to see him suffer. A terrible thought thudded through my veins:

I should kill him.

As the wind whirled with ice and dust and the madness of the outside wilderness, I shuddered with horror and sorrow. This is perhaps the only justice I can offer him in the long, line of miseries of his short life. This was the only way.

"I have a Christmas present for you... Sirius..."

I smile as I wrap my arms round him tighter. He doesn’t respond and I no longer have fear of the crime I will commit. The only thing that troubles me is that he is still warm and breathing. Wiggling from beneath the tight covers and reaching for my trunk which is by the bedside: I heave it open and take out a small envelope. Snape had given it to me for this very purpose. I open it, and inside I disclose the berry, "Serenia". It is poison, fatal and painless but tastes as sweet as caramel.

I snuggle down into the sheets, and at once, my body is awake with cold sweat and pounding pulse. My chest is beating so hard, that I feel I’ll break. Sirius makes a small, grunting noise and as I return to my comforting position, embracing him like a sheath, I trace my fingers down his forehead, nose and finally mouth. I tease it open with my fingers and Sirius sucks on them a little as they were food. I press into his mouth and let him suckle softly, trying to keep my cool. I finally take the bead-like berry from my clenched, sweaty palm, remove my fingers from his mouth and replace it with the poison.

I hear his tongue suckling on it softly, and my nerves flurry with ice and fire.

"Merry Christmas, Sirius..."

He swallows.
Fin.