Bring Me A Boat, Chapter Three
I finally got around to finishing this chapter! I'm really sorry for the long wait - life and stuff got in the way. I hope it was worth waiting for!
Title: Bring Me A Boat (Chapter Three)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This is an alternative universe fic, exploring what might have happened in 1981 if Remus had never stopped trusting Sirius.
Warnings: Trauma, grief (canon character deaths), wrongful imprisonment, injury. This chapter: Grief, scenes of prisoners in distress.
Notes: The title and opening quote come from a traditional Scottish folk song (or possibly Irish or English, depending on the version) more usually known as 'O Waly Waly'.
Remus was barely aware of the funeral coming to an end and the congregation leaving around him, their voices muted in subdued conversation. Harry was very still in his arms, breathing softly, his head resting on Remus’ shoulder. They might have sat there all day, unmoving, drawing comfort from the simple contact, but at last Remus became aware of movement at his side, and he looked up.
Petunia Dursley stood looking down at him, her own son quiet now, sleeping in her arms. Her eyes were a little red, but she was composed, and Remus rubbed the back of his hand over his face, suddenly self-conscious about the tears that still streaked his cheeks.
‘I’m sorry; I was miles away. You’ll be wanting to get home, of course.’ He stood up, brushing his lips over Harry’s damp hair as the baby reached up and wrapped warm arms around his neck.
Petunia gave him a small smile. ‘That’s all right. Thank you for looking after him.’
‘Not at all; he’s no trouble.’ Remus carried Harry to the end of the pew and knelt down beside the pushchair, reaching up to disentangle himself from the small hands that clutched his shirt tightly. ‘Come on, love, let go. Time to go home with Auntie Petunia now.’
Harry resisted, clinging to him tightly, and Remus ached for the confused little boy. He couldn’t blame him for wanting to hold on to a familiar point of stability in a world that seemed to have fallen apart at the seams; he felt the same way himself, suddenly reluctant to leave as Harry finally let go and allowed himself to be strapped into the pushchair. He leaned down to give the quiet boy one last kiss on his bandaged forehead, and then stood up and spoke hesitantly to Petunia.
‘I wonder - do you think I might be able to visit Harry sometimes? Just occasionally, I wouldn’t interfere…. ’ He broke off as he saw the look that flashed across Petunia’s eyes, an expression of guilt and something very like fear.
‘I don’t think…. My husband…. ’ She trailed off into silence, looking helplessly at Remus.
‘Of course. It can’t be easy.’ He tried to smile reassuringly, knowing the expression didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I should be going, in any case.’ He hesitated, then, more softly, ‘Take care of him.’
He turned without waiting for a response, walking quickly through the dispersing crowd and out into the bitingly cold air.
***
‘Remus?’
He had almost made it. Really, Remus had no desire to speak to anyone now; he needed to be alone and quiet, where he could think and plan and somehow find a way to achieve the impossible and bring Sirius home. But now Dumbledore was behind him, calling his name and catching him up with his long strides, and all he could do was to stop and sigh and fix a polite smile to his face before turning around to face the old wizard.
‘Professor. How are you?’
‘I’m well, thank you, Remus.’ Dumbledore smiled as he spoke, but he looked tired, Remus thought, tired and suddenly old. ‘I wondered whether you would care to join me for a cup of tea in my office before you go home.’
Remus was tempted to decline, remembering his frustration at the old wizard’s refusal to accept the possibility that Sirius might be innocent, but he hesitated, swayed by the dark shadows under Dumbledore’s eyes and the thought of the emptiness of his own house.
‘Thank you. I’d like that.’
***
It had not taken them long to get to Hogwarts. It had never occurred to Remus that there was a Floo point in Dumbledore’s office, but when he thought about it, it made a great deal of sense. Once you knew where the public Floo points were in each town, information that could be found in a Ministry-published pamphlet, it was the obvious way to travel, especially considering the restrictions on Apparation that had been placed on the school and its grounds. Dumbledore’s office fireplace was protected by a password, of course, a word that the old wizard had mumbled into the flames as he cast the shimmering powder in, but, stepping in behind him, Remus had found himself transported into the familiar room in a whirl of green fire.
‘Tea?’ Dumbledore’s voice broke through his musings.
‘Yes, please, Professor. Milk and one sugar, if you have it.’
The professor carried a steaming teapot to the small table in front of Remus, and sat in the chair facing him. He began to speak as he poured the tea, his tone carefully light.
‘You know, they’re talking about awarding a posthumous Order of Merlin to Peter.’
Remus’ hand shook as he accepted the teacup from his old headmaster, spilling hot liquid over his wrist. He looked up at Dumbledore, eyes wide with shock, as the old wizard continued.
‘I know you have your doubts about him, Remus, but you must accept the evidence. There’s no other explanation, there’s no reason to think that Peter could have been the spy.’
Except that I know Sirius. I know how much he loved James and Lily and Harry. He couldn’t have hurt them.
The thought was clear in Remus’ mind, but he remained silent, turning his eyes to the floor. He had gone over this with Dumbledore already, there was nothing to be gained by pushing the point. Better to maintain the facade of accepting Sirius’ guilt, to keep suspicion from falling on him whilst he did what was necessary. Finally looking up at Dumbledore, he spoke quietly, holding his teacup between his hands as though he could draw comfort from its warmth.
‘It’s just so hard to accept it. One minute Sirius was there, just like he always was, and then - suddenly he’s a traitor and a Death Eater and he’s been taken away to a prison that I’ve only ever read about and I can’t - I can’t take it in.’
There was no need for him to feign the distress in his voice, and Dumbledore’s eyes were full of sympathy as he replied slowly.
‘I do understand, Remus. More than you might think.’ He stood and crossed to the fireplace, picking up a small jar, and then wrote a word on a scrap of parchment and folded it before handing them both to Remus. ‘You may find you need to talk to someone about this; perhaps not now, but in a few days or weeks when the full impact of what has happened begins to sink in. This powder and this password will reach me at any time. If you need me, Remus, all you have to do is call, day or night. I may no longer be your headmaster, but I hope I am still your friend.’
Remus accepted the jar with a barely audible word of thanks, emotion tightening his chest. He felt tremendous guilt at hiding his intentions from Dumbledore, especially after such a kind gesture, and the thought of manipulating that kindness almost overwhelmed him. It was a few moments before he could speak again, but he steeled himself - think of Sirius - and looked up at Dumbledore.
‘Thank you, Professor. That means a lot, it really does.’ He paused, and then went on hesitantly. ‘May I ask - have you ever seen Azkaban? It’s so hard to envisage where he is; it all seems like a dream. I feel as though I need to see it, or at least to know more about it. At the moment it just feels as though he’s vanished, like he might come walking back through the door at any moment.’
Dumbledore regarded him for a long moment, blue eyes piercing, as though he could see into Remus’ soul. Finally, he sighed and spoke.
‘I suppose you do need to see it, for it to seem real to you.’ He stood and crossed the room, pulling a sheet off an object in the corner. ‘Come with me.’
Remus stood and walked over to the corner where Dumbledore stood, his breath catching as he recognised a Pensieve gleaming in the faint light from the window. Dumbledore looked at him and nodded, seeing his eyes widen in recognition.
‘I have only been to Azkaban once, on an errand for the Wizengamot, of which I will not speak now. I should warn you that it is by no means a pleasant place, and you may find it quite distressing, considering…. current circumstances. Are you sure you want to see this?’
‘I’m quite sure.’ Remus was pale, but his voice was steady, and Dumbledore nodded and lifted his wand to his temple, extracting a silvery thread of memory into the bowl of the Pensieve. Remus leaned over and looked into the silver depths, and suddenly he was falling into darkness.
***
The wind howled like a wild creature. That, and the crashing of waves, was Remus’ first conscious perception, and he braced himself, steadying his feet on the jagged rocks. Above him, impossibly high, towered the bleak grey wall of a stone fortress, desolate and terrifying, casting black shadows in the pale moonlight.
A presence at his shoulder made him turn, and he saw Dumbledore close behind him, blue eyes shadowed in the darkness,
‘This is Azkaban?’ The shock in Remus’ voice was very real.
‘It is. Do you want to continue?’
‘Yes. Yes, I need to see.’
‘Look, then.’
Dumbledore laid a hand on his shoulder and turned him towards a figure that stood a little further along the wall, waiting at a heavy iron door. The man had his back to them, but Remus could see that he wore a heavy, dark cloak, and his long hair was auburn and streaked with grey.
‘Is that you?’ He had asked the question before he was aware of even thinking it.
‘It is. Or, I should say, it was. Where has the time gone?’ The older Dumbledore shook his head sadly, then looked up again as a heavy lock on the door thudded open and a man - no, a creature, made of shadow and darkness and terror - glided out and stood before the auburn-haired wizard. Remus took an involuntary step back, and Dumbledore steadied him with a hand on his arm.
‘Ah. A Dementor. You have heard of them before, no doubt.’
‘Yes - yes, in Defence lessons, when we learned the Patronus charm. I’ve never seen one, though; not like this.’
‘I would have been very surprised if you had. Few people do; they feed on human emotion, and being in their company is a very unpleasant experience. On this particular day, there was an agreement that they would not delve into my mind in that way, but even so, I remember that simply being in their presence was extremely draining, and not something I would care to repeat.’
‘Is that what they do to their prisoners, then? Feed on their minds?’ Remus didn’t try to disguise the horror in his voice.
‘It is thought to be a suitable punishment for the worst crimes, yes.’ Dumbledore looked out to sea as he answered, his face turned from Remus. ‘The memories are not lost, but the prisoners are made to relive them repeatedly.’
Remus shuddered, biting down the protests that sprang to his lips. He had to stay calm now; Dumbledore had to believe that he accepted Sirius’ fate. He kept his voice carefully level as he spoke again.
‘How did that one know you were there? I didn’t see you knock.’
‘And it would not have heard me if I had. Dementors are blind and deaf; they sense people’s emotions rather than their physical presence. It makes them the ideal prison guards, I suppose. A prisoner could use an invisibility cloak and a spell of silencing, and the Dementors would still know exactly where he was from the flavour of his emotions.’
As Dumbledore spoke, his younger self began to follow the Dementor through the heavy door, and he turned to face Remus at last.
‘Ah, here is our chance to go inside. Do you still want to? I know it may be difficult for you.’
Remus swallowed. ‘I think I need to see it. I need to know.’
‘Quickly, then.’ Dumbledore moved surprisingly quickly for a man of his age, and Remus had to run over the uneven rocks to keep up with him. The heavy door was just swinging shut as they reached it and slipped inside, breathing heavily. Remus blinked in the sudden dimness, watching as the Dementor and the younger Dumbledore made their way down a damp, narrow passageway.
‘We must follow closely. This passageway has many turns, and it is easy to become lost.’ Dumbledore was already moving as he spoke over his shoulder to Remus. ‘It is another precaution against any attempt to escape. The tunnels are built as a maze, and only the Dementors know the way in. Anyone trying to navigate them on his own would become quickly lost, and would no doubt die as a result.’
Remus said nothing in reply, focusing his mind entirely on his footsteps. The Marauders’ Map had been years in the making, and the process of recording every twist and turn and rise and fall of the school passageways, noting every step as it was taken, had been an intensely laborious task that they had all detested. They had almost been on the point of giving the whole thing up in frustration when Remus had come across an obscure reference to a little-used magic, half spell, half memory trick, in an old, dusty book on cartography. The map had progressed much more quickly after that, and Remus had retained, even to this day, the ability to pace out and remember to the last turn any journey that he made on foot.
Fifteen paces, sloping gently downwards, and a sharp turn to the left.
Twelve paces. A tunnel branching to the right; continue past. Twenty paces, a curve to the left, and the tunnel forks to the right….
***
It was the screaming that almost broke him. Remus had never heard such agony in a human voice before, and yet the prisoner, huddled in torn grey robes in the dark corner of a cell, was not being physically harmed as far as he could see. He turned to Dumbledore, eyes full of questions, and the old wizard spoke in soft tones.
‘He is reliving his memories, as I told you. I believe the most worst memories provide the most intense…. sustenance for the Dementors. This man was a new prisoner, I think. I understand that most of them become quiescent after a while.’
Sirius is going through this now, Remus thought, biting down on his lip so hard that he tasted blood. His worst memories….
No. He could not think about that now. There was not much time, he had to take in all he could of this bleak, soul-stifling place before the memory ended and he was thrown back into the real world. His eyes darted over the shadowed, stony corridors, taking in the heavily barred cell doors and the Dementors drifting silently through the desolation. The prisoners - Sirius - huddled in corners, eyes dark and staring in skeletal faces. The stench of terror and filth stuck in Remus’ throat, and he choked as they passed the screaming man’s cell and saw him reach out a withered, shaking hand to the younger Dumbledore. As Remus looked into the man’s face, it was as though his features shifted and changed, and suddenly he was staring at Sirius, looking on helplessly as desperate grey eyes fixed on his face and pleaded with him….
…. The shadowed cell faded and blurred. Remus was standing once again in Dumbledore’s warm, quiet office, the only sound that of a ticking clock and Remus’ own ragged breathing. The Pensieve was dull now in front of him, and Dumbledore’s face was calm as he looked at the younger man with sympathy in his eyes. Remus raised a shaking hand to his own face, looking down at it in shaken surprise as it came away wet with tears he had not remembered shedding.
‘So, that was Azkaban.’ The old wizard’s voice was gentle. ‘I hope that what you have seen will prove to be more of a reassurance than a source of pain to you, in time. Tell me, Remus, has it helped you, seeing it for yourself?’
Remus looked Dumbledore directly in the eye, and his voice was steady as he answered.
‘It has, Professor. More than I can tell you.’
Chapter Four
Title: Bring Me A Boat (Chapter Three)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This is an alternative universe fic, exploring what might have happened in 1981 if Remus had never stopped trusting Sirius.
Warnings: Trauma, grief (canon character deaths), wrongful imprisonment, injury. This chapter: Grief, scenes of prisoners in distress.
Notes: The title and opening quote come from a traditional Scottish folk song (or possibly Irish or English, depending on the version) more usually known as 'O Waly Waly'.
Remus was barely aware of the funeral coming to an end and the congregation leaving around him, their voices muted in subdued conversation. Harry was very still in his arms, breathing softly, his head resting on Remus’ shoulder. They might have sat there all day, unmoving, drawing comfort from the simple contact, but at last Remus became aware of movement at his side, and he looked up.
Petunia Dursley stood looking down at him, her own son quiet now, sleeping in her arms. Her eyes were a little red, but she was composed, and Remus rubbed the back of his hand over his face, suddenly self-conscious about the tears that still streaked his cheeks.
‘I’m sorry; I was miles away. You’ll be wanting to get home, of course.’ He stood up, brushing his lips over Harry’s damp hair as the baby reached up and wrapped warm arms around his neck.
Petunia gave him a small smile. ‘That’s all right. Thank you for looking after him.’
‘Not at all; he’s no trouble.’ Remus carried Harry to the end of the pew and knelt down beside the pushchair, reaching up to disentangle himself from the small hands that clutched his shirt tightly. ‘Come on, love, let go. Time to go home with Auntie Petunia now.’
Harry resisted, clinging to him tightly, and Remus ached for the confused little boy. He couldn’t blame him for wanting to hold on to a familiar point of stability in a world that seemed to have fallen apart at the seams; he felt the same way himself, suddenly reluctant to leave as Harry finally let go and allowed himself to be strapped into the pushchair. He leaned down to give the quiet boy one last kiss on his bandaged forehead, and then stood up and spoke hesitantly to Petunia.
‘I wonder - do you think I might be able to visit Harry sometimes? Just occasionally, I wouldn’t interfere…. ’ He broke off as he saw the look that flashed across Petunia’s eyes, an expression of guilt and something very like fear.
‘I don’t think…. My husband…. ’ She trailed off into silence, looking helplessly at Remus.
‘Of course. It can’t be easy.’ He tried to smile reassuringly, knowing the expression didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I should be going, in any case.’ He hesitated, then, more softly, ‘Take care of him.’
He turned without waiting for a response, walking quickly through the dispersing crowd and out into the bitingly cold air.
***
‘Remus?’
He had almost made it. Really, Remus had no desire to speak to anyone now; he needed to be alone and quiet, where he could think and plan and somehow find a way to achieve the impossible and bring Sirius home. But now Dumbledore was behind him, calling his name and catching him up with his long strides, and all he could do was to stop and sigh and fix a polite smile to his face before turning around to face the old wizard.
‘Professor. How are you?’
‘I’m well, thank you, Remus.’ Dumbledore smiled as he spoke, but he looked tired, Remus thought, tired and suddenly old. ‘I wondered whether you would care to join me for a cup of tea in my office before you go home.’
Remus was tempted to decline, remembering his frustration at the old wizard’s refusal to accept the possibility that Sirius might be innocent, but he hesitated, swayed by the dark shadows under Dumbledore’s eyes and the thought of the emptiness of his own house.
‘Thank you. I’d like that.’
***
It had not taken them long to get to Hogwarts. It had never occurred to Remus that there was a Floo point in Dumbledore’s office, but when he thought about it, it made a great deal of sense. Once you knew where the public Floo points were in each town, information that could be found in a Ministry-published pamphlet, it was the obvious way to travel, especially considering the restrictions on Apparation that had been placed on the school and its grounds. Dumbledore’s office fireplace was protected by a password, of course, a word that the old wizard had mumbled into the flames as he cast the shimmering powder in, but, stepping in behind him, Remus had found himself transported into the familiar room in a whirl of green fire.
‘Tea?’ Dumbledore’s voice broke through his musings.
‘Yes, please, Professor. Milk and one sugar, if you have it.’
The professor carried a steaming teapot to the small table in front of Remus, and sat in the chair facing him. He began to speak as he poured the tea, his tone carefully light.
‘You know, they’re talking about awarding a posthumous Order of Merlin to Peter.’
Remus’ hand shook as he accepted the teacup from his old headmaster, spilling hot liquid over his wrist. He looked up at Dumbledore, eyes wide with shock, as the old wizard continued.
‘I know you have your doubts about him, Remus, but you must accept the evidence. There’s no other explanation, there’s no reason to think that Peter could have been the spy.’
Except that I know Sirius. I know how much he loved James and Lily and Harry. He couldn’t have hurt them.
The thought was clear in Remus’ mind, but he remained silent, turning his eyes to the floor. He had gone over this with Dumbledore already, there was nothing to be gained by pushing the point. Better to maintain the facade of accepting Sirius’ guilt, to keep suspicion from falling on him whilst he did what was necessary. Finally looking up at Dumbledore, he spoke quietly, holding his teacup between his hands as though he could draw comfort from its warmth.
‘It’s just so hard to accept it. One minute Sirius was there, just like he always was, and then - suddenly he’s a traitor and a Death Eater and he’s been taken away to a prison that I’ve only ever read about and I can’t - I can’t take it in.’
There was no need for him to feign the distress in his voice, and Dumbledore’s eyes were full of sympathy as he replied slowly.
‘I do understand, Remus. More than you might think.’ He stood and crossed to the fireplace, picking up a small jar, and then wrote a word on a scrap of parchment and folded it before handing them both to Remus. ‘You may find you need to talk to someone about this; perhaps not now, but in a few days or weeks when the full impact of what has happened begins to sink in. This powder and this password will reach me at any time. If you need me, Remus, all you have to do is call, day or night. I may no longer be your headmaster, but I hope I am still your friend.’
Remus accepted the jar with a barely audible word of thanks, emotion tightening his chest. He felt tremendous guilt at hiding his intentions from Dumbledore, especially after such a kind gesture, and the thought of manipulating that kindness almost overwhelmed him. It was a few moments before he could speak again, but he steeled himself - think of Sirius - and looked up at Dumbledore.
‘Thank you, Professor. That means a lot, it really does.’ He paused, and then went on hesitantly. ‘May I ask - have you ever seen Azkaban? It’s so hard to envisage where he is; it all seems like a dream. I feel as though I need to see it, or at least to know more about it. At the moment it just feels as though he’s vanished, like he might come walking back through the door at any moment.’
Dumbledore regarded him for a long moment, blue eyes piercing, as though he could see into Remus’ soul. Finally, he sighed and spoke.
‘I suppose you do need to see it, for it to seem real to you.’ He stood and crossed the room, pulling a sheet off an object in the corner. ‘Come with me.’
Remus stood and walked over to the corner where Dumbledore stood, his breath catching as he recognised a Pensieve gleaming in the faint light from the window. Dumbledore looked at him and nodded, seeing his eyes widen in recognition.
‘I have only been to Azkaban once, on an errand for the Wizengamot, of which I will not speak now. I should warn you that it is by no means a pleasant place, and you may find it quite distressing, considering…. current circumstances. Are you sure you want to see this?’
‘I’m quite sure.’ Remus was pale, but his voice was steady, and Dumbledore nodded and lifted his wand to his temple, extracting a silvery thread of memory into the bowl of the Pensieve. Remus leaned over and looked into the silver depths, and suddenly he was falling into darkness.
***
The wind howled like a wild creature. That, and the crashing of waves, was Remus’ first conscious perception, and he braced himself, steadying his feet on the jagged rocks. Above him, impossibly high, towered the bleak grey wall of a stone fortress, desolate and terrifying, casting black shadows in the pale moonlight.
A presence at his shoulder made him turn, and he saw Dumbledore close behind him, blue eyes shadowed in the darkness,
‘This is Azkaban?’ The shock in Remus’ voice was very real.
‘It is. Do you want to continue?’
‘Yes. Yes, I need to see.’
‘Look, then.’
Dumbledore laid a hand on his shoulder and turned him towards a figure that stood a little further along the wall, waiting at a heavy iron door. The man had his back to them, but Remus could see that he wore a heavy, dark cloak, and his long hair was auburn and streaked with grey.
‘Is that you?’ He had asked the question before he was aware of even thinking it.
‘It is. Or, I should say, it was. Where has the time gone?’ The older Dumbledore shook his head sadly, then looked up again as a heavy lock on the door thudded open and a man - no, a creature, made of shadow and darkness and terror - glided out and stood before the auburn-haired wizard. Remus took an involuntary step back, and Dumbledore steadied him with a hand on his arm.
‘Ah. A Dementor. You have heard of them before, no doubt.’
‘Yes - yes, in Defence lessons, when we learned the Patronus charm. I’ve never seen one, though; not like this.’
‘I would have been very surprised if you had. Few people do; they feed on human emotion, and being in their company is a very unpleasant experience. On this particular day, there was an agreement that they would not delve into my mind in that way, but even so, I remember that simply being in their presence was extremely draining, and not something I would care to repeat.’
‘Is that what they do to their prisoners, then? Feed on their minds?’ Remus didn’t try to disguise the horror in his voice.
‘It is thought to be a suitable punishment for the worst crimes, yes.’ Dumbledore looked out to sea as he answered, his face turned from Remus. ‘The memories are not lost, but the prisoners are made to relive them repeatedly.’
Remus shuddered, biting down the protests that sprang to his lips. He had to stay calm now; Dumbledore had to believe that he accepted Sirius’ fate. He kept his voice carefully level as he spoke again.
‘How did that one know you were there? I didn’t see you knock.’
‘And it would not have heard me if I had. Dementors are blind and deaf; they sense people’s emotions rather than their physical presence. It makes them the ideal prison guards, I suppose. A prisoner could use an invisibility cloak and a spell of silencing, and the Dementors would still know exactly where he was from the flavour of his emotions.’
As Dumbledore spoke, his younger self began to follow the Dementor through the heavy door, and he turned to face Remus at last.
‘Ah, here is our chance to go inside. Do you still want to? I know it may be difficult for you.’
Remus swallowed. ‘I think I need to see it. I need to know.’
‘Quickly, then.’ Dumbledore moved surprisingly quickly for a man of his age, and Remus had to run over the uneven rocks to keep up with him. The heavy door was just swinging shut as they reached it and slipped inside, breathing heavily. Remus blinked in the sudden dimness, watching as the Dementor and the younger Dumbledore made their way down a damp, narrow passageway.
‘We must follow closely. This passageway has many turns, and it is easy to become lost.’ Dumbledore was already moving as he spoke over his shoulder to Remus. ‘It is another precaution against any attempt to escape. The tunnels are built as a maze, and only the Dementors know the way in. Anyone trying to navigate them on his own would become quickly lost, and would no doubt die as a result.’
Remus said nothing in reply, focusing his mind entirely on his footsteps. The Marauders’ Map had been years in the making, and the process of recording every twist and turn and rise and fall of the school passageways, noting every step as it was taken, had been an intensely laborious task that they had all detested. They had almost been on the point of giving the whole thing up in frustration when Remus had come across an obscure reference to a little-used magic, half spell, half memory trick, in an old, dusty book on cartography. The map had progressed much more quickly after that, and Remus had retained, even to this day, the ability to pace out and remember to the last turn any journey that he made on foot.
Fifteen paces, sloping gently downwards, and a sharp turn to the left.
Twelve paces. A tunnel branching to the right; continue past. Twenty paces, a curve to the left, and the tunnel forks to the right….
***
It was the screaming that almost broke him. Remus had never heard such agony in a human voice before, and yet the prisoner, huddled in torn grey robes in the dark corner of a cell, was not being physically harmed as far as he could see. He turned to Dumbledore, eyes full of questions, and the old wizard spoke in soft tones.
‘He is reliving his memories, as I told you. I believe the most worst memories provide the most intense…. sustenance for the Dementors. This man was a new prisoner, I think. I understand that most of them become quiescent after a while.’
Sirius is going through this now, Remus thought, biting down on his lip so hard that he tasted blood. His worst memories….
No. He could not think about that now. There was not much time, he had to take in all he could of this bleak, soul-stifling place before the memory ended and he was thrown back into the real world. His eyes darted over the shadowed, stony corridors, taking in the heavily barred cell doors and the Dementors drifting silently through the desolation. The prisoners - Sirius - huddled in corners, eyes dark and staring in skeletal faces. The stench of terror and filth stuck in Remus’ throat, and he choked as they passed the screaming man’s cell and saw him reach out a withered, shaking hand to the younger Dumbledore. As Remus looked into the man’s face, it was as though his features shifted and changed, and suddenly he was staring at Sirius, looking on helplessly as desperate grey eyes fixed on his face and pleaded with him….
…. The shadowed cell faded and blurred. Remus was standing once again in Dumbledore’s warm, quiet office, the only sound that of a ticking clock and Remus’ own ragged breathing. The Pensieve was dull now in front of him, and Dumbledore’s face was calm as he looked at the younger man with sympathy in his eyes. Remus raised a shaking hand to his own face, looking down at it in shaken surprise as it came away wet with tears he had not remembered shedding.
‘So, that was Azkaban.’ The old wizard’s voice was gentle. ‘I hope that what you have seen will prove to be more of a reassurance than a source of pain to you, in time. Tell me, Remus, has it helped you, seeing it for yourself?’
Remus looked Dumbledore directly in the eye, and his voice was steady as he answered.
‘It has, Professor. More than I can tell you.’
Chapter Four