The Marauders - Order of the Phoenix - Part Two

XXXIII: 25 December, 1993

Remus had looked everywhere. He'd trudged up the tunnel toward the Trophy Room to check the alcove - for he'd come to the realization that the mess there was likely made by Sirius Black himself. He barely got back out of there, so sore were his muscles and bones. It took him hours of time, but he even checked the Shrieking Shack, and was sorely disappointed to find not only was Sirius not out there, but the blankets and chocolate he'd left for him were untouched, too.

Remus sat on the couch in the Shrieking Shack, bundled up in those very blankets and ate the chocolate as he shivered, not wanting to make the trek back to the castle. His knees hurt too bad and he just couldn't bring himself to make the journey. So he lay in the silence of the Shack, watching the waxing moon through a crack in the boarded-up windows, wishing that things were different - so many things he couldn't even put his finger on all of the things leaving him uneasy and uncomfortable.

A part of him had hoped the next day when he trudged back to the castle that he would find Sirius in his office again - but he wasn't there, either.

It's just as well, Remus tried to tell himself. That kiss ought never to have happened.

"Why is it that we've always, always gone the route of guilty until proven innocent?" Sirius's voice echoed in Remus's head and she shivered from something beyond the cold.

He sat in the high backed chair in his office into the smallest hours of Christmas day, staring into the fire, his jaw set and his eyes vacant, thinking... thinking... thinking. There was no way - Sirius's claim to be innocent didn't even make sense. Nobody stands about laughing on the street as half a city block was destroyed and Peter Pettigrew was murdered by that bloody reducto Sirius had always, always used. 

Laughed like he was in on some manic joke, Underhill had told Remus, shaking his head as they rode on the little boat in the middle of the nasty grey sea.

Mind games, Remus thought vehemently. 

"What if I didn't do it though?" Sirius's voice echoed. 

"But there is no explanation that makes sense!" Remus sighed heavily. He reckoned the only person that ever could have known the full truth of what happened that night was poor Peter Pettigrew. Remus looked over at an old photo he had dug up from the bottom of his briefcase and leaned against the wedding photo - a picture from the last Christmas they'd all spent together, and there was Peter's face staring up at James in the picture with an expression of admiration. But Peter was gone - nothing left but a finger, Remus reminded himself, shaking his head, and there was no hope of ever hearing the truth from him.

Back in the day, Remus had done some pretty crazy things to try at finding out the truth. The craziest of which was to suspend his disbelief in divination and visit an old witch who had a small dusty shop off Knockturn Alley who claimed she could speak to the spirits of the dead. She'd failed at conjuring up either James or Lily, and he'd finally asked her to try at bringing Peter Pettigrew back to speak to him, and she'd spun her dice several times over before saying, "You sure you got the right name? They're all saying this one is not there."

Remus remembered quickly after that how poorly he thought of divination. 

But the bottom line had been that the only possible hope Remus had of the truth being set right was gone and now all he had was a spinning mass of half-blurred memories and the lingering feeling of guilt.

"...Why couldn't we ever just believe the best in each other?"

Why indeed? 

But there was no explanation that made sense...