The Boy Who Killed God {Sirius Black | Marauders Era Fanfiction}

Frankenstein's Monster

MAY 25, 1972

"What does Albus Dumbledore have on Remus?"

The question, in its various forms, had been floating around in Sirius's head for a month now.

The first iteration of the question had been simple. It had been the thesis of his entire argument: a long, elegant knife directly to the crux of the issue at hand. It'd come to him in a dream of a better world, immediately before it'd quite literally jolted him awake in the middle of the night, not long after he'd gotten his wand back.

Why did Remus trust Dumbledore?

He shouldn't, goddamnit.

Sirius thought he'd been pretty clear on that. He'd grown up with people like Dumbledore: people vying for power, playing war-games over Sunday dinner with the same fervour and wrath with which most people stared at the Sunday crossword. And, Merlin, at the end of the day, how many people—how many souls—had sworn their allegiance to Albus Dumbledore, only to be left strewn on the battlefield before the Old Man finally mustered up the goddamned courage to fight that duel against Grindelwald?

But Remus did trust him. Sirius knew he did, even after Sirius laid out all of Dumbledore's sins. Granted, Sirius had veiled everything in a metaphor, but he knew Remus had followed it. He'd seen it in Remus's eyes.

But Remus hadn't agreed.

That... That stung, more than just a dagger to his pride. That kind of trust in a man such as Dumbledore was dangerous.

Still, he hadn't been able to ask Remus that question. It didn't feel like the right question, and he could already taste Remus's refusal to answer. He'd known that that question—the wrong one, about misplaced trust in a false god—had been mired in the secret Remus still refused to speak aloud.

That thought had sent Sirius spiralling and careening down a rabbit hole of secrets and half truths, and when he'd finally tumbled out into the brave new world without a single answer, he'd been left with nothing but his own insecurities and self-loathing. He hadn't wanted to speak to anyone for a few days, despite James's generally dazzling and persuasive personality, Lily's worn but concerned half-smiles she was no longer trying to hide, and Remus's—

Merlin.

Remus hadn't leave his side, hadn't said a damn word about the self-annihilation on Sirius's face, written in plain English for the whole damn world to see. He'd stayed at Sirius's side, gently—briefly—nudging him in the directions he needed to go. He'd made Sirius's plate at dinner, had poured Sirius's coffee without a word of complaint or even an attempt to pester an explanation out of him, even as James and Lily had whispered about sending him off to Madam Pomfrey.

Remus had just been there, had silently and subtly made his presence known, and that was so much more than enough.

On the third night of this deafening silence, Remus had snagged Sirius's sleeve and tugged him out onto the roof. Once Sirius had settled back into the shingles, duvet wrapped tightly around his shoulders despite the mildness of the night, Remus had pressed his copy of Frankenstein into Sirius's hand.

"Read to me," he'd said. Then, shattering everything left in Sirius's heart, "Show me what you see, Sirius."

So, Sirius had forced himself to swallow around the second iteration of the question—still the wrong question, goddamnit—even though it had lodged itself in his throat, threatening to break loose and ruin absolutely everything.

Why don't you trust me, Remus?

Instead, Sirius had started reading, and the importance of the question—the words that dug poisoned fingers into his exposed heart—had faded away to nothing.