He Came Back From Azkaban To Tame The Beast Inside Me

The heavy front door of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, groaned open, revealing a hallway swallowed by shadows. The air that rushed out to greet Remus was stale, thick with the scent of dust, decay, and the faint, acrid tang of dark magic that clung to the ancient walls like a shroud. He stepped over the threshold, his worn boots making no sound on the threadbare runner. It was exactly as he remembered from their youth: oppressive, silent, and suffocating.

And then he saw him.

Sirius stood at the far end of the hall, near the base of the grand, creaking staircase. He was just a silhouette at first, a tall, thin shape against the deeper gloom. But as Remus’s eyes adjusted, the details sharpened into a portrait of devastation. This was not the boy he had loved, the one with laughter in his eyes and a rebellious fire that could warm the coldest stone. This was a man who had been hollowed out, leaving only a fragile shell behind.

Azkaban had stripped him of everything. The proud, aristocratic features were now gaunt, the skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones and a hollow jaw. His dark hair, once a cascade of careless waves, was lank and matted, hanging to his shoulders in greasy strands. He wore old, ill-fitting robes that hung from his skeletal frame, making him look like a scarecrow propped up in the ancestral home he’d once despised.

But it was his eyes that broke something deep inside Remus. The storm-grey eyes that had once flashed with mischief and passion were now dull, sunken into dark sockets, haunted by things Remus could not, and did not want to, imagine.

The breath caught in Remus’s throat. A physical ache, sharp and sudden, pierced his chest. For twelve years, he had mourned a traitor. For the past few weeks, since learning the truth, he had been steeling himself for this reunion. None of it had prepared him for the sheer, brutal reality of Sirius’s ruin.

“Sirius,” Remus said. The name was a rough sound, torn from his lungs. It felt foreign on his tongue after so long.

Sirius’s head lifted. He didn’t smile. His face remained a mask of weary emptiness. He took a hesitant step forward, his movements stiff, uncertain. “Remus.”

His voice. It was a low, gravelly sound, stripped of its former ringing confidence. It was the voice of a man who had spent a dozen years screaming into silence.

They stood there, separated by ten feet of dusty air that felt as wide and cold as the North Sea. The space between them was filled with the ghosts of James and Lily, the phantom of Peter’s betrayal, and the crushing weight of twelve years of wrongful imprisonment. Remus wanted to close the distance, to throw his arms around the fragile man before him, to feel the familiar beat of his heart and reassure himself that he was real, that he was home. But his feet were rooted to the floor. The chasm was too great, filled with too much pain. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, a testament to all the words they couldn't find.

The Order meeting was held in the cavernous, damp kitchen in the basement. The long wooden table was crowded with familiar faces—Kingsley Shacklebolt, Nymphadora Tonks, Arthur and Molly Weasley—all of them looking grim under the flickering gaslights. Remus sat nursing a cup of lukewarm tea, watching Sirius from across the table. He hadn’t sat down once. He paced the length of the flagstone floor, a caged animal wearing a path in the grime, his thin frame vibrating with a nervous energy that made the whole room feel unstable.

“He’s not safe there,” Sirius said for the third time, his voice sharp with frustration. The topic, as it always seemed to be, was Harry. “The Dursleys? After what they put him through? He should be here, with me.”

Molly Weasley set her teacup down with a firm click. “Sirius, we have been over this. Dumbledore himself said that the blood wards at Privet Drive are the strongest protection Harry has.” Her tone was patient, but with an underlying steel Remus knew well. It was the voice of a mother who would not be moved on the matter of a child’s safety.

“Wards can be broken!” Sirius spun around, his grey eyes flashing with a wild, desperate light. “Voldemort is back! What good are wards if his followers decide to burn the whole bloody house down around him? He needs to be with people who can actually defend him. He needs to be with me. I’m his godfather.”

“A godfather who is still the most wanted wizard in Britain!” Molly snapped, her patience finally cracking. Her face flushed, and she rose slightly from her chair. “You are in no condition to be caring for anyone, let alone a teenage boy! You need to stay here, where it is safe, and let Dumbledore and the rest of us handle it.”

The words hung in the air, cruel and sharp. Remus saw Sirius flinch as if he’d been struck. The frantic energy vanished, replaced by a chilling stillness. The haunted look in his eyes deepened into something wounded and dangerous.

“Condition?” he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, guttural whisper that silenced the room. “You have no idea what my condition is. You spent the last twelve years safe with your family, in your home. Don’t you dare talk to me about my fitness to care for my godson.”

Molly’s mouth opened and closed, her face pale. Arthur put a restraining hand on her arm. The tension was suffocating. Remus felt the familiar weight settle in his chest, the old, ingrained instinct to pull Sirius back from the ledge.

He stood up slowly, his chair scraping against the stone. “Sirius,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, cutting through the thick silence. Everyone looked at him. He kept his eyes only on Sirius. “Molly is worried. We all are. Your desire to protect Harry is right, but your methods are not.”

He walked around the table until he was standing a few feet from Sirius, close enough to see the tremor in his hands. “You know Dumbledore’s logic is sound. Rushing, acting on impulse… that’s what got us into this mess in the first place.” The words were gentle, but they carried the weight of their shared past, of Peter’s betrayal.

Sirius’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. The anger in his eyes was warring with a deep, bottomless pain.

“I can’t be useless again, Moony,” he whispered, the old nickname slipping out, raw and broken. “I can’t just sit in this house and wait.”

“You are not useless,” Remus said, his own voice softening. “You are giving us a headquarters. You are giving us hope. But for now, you have to trust us. You have to trust me.”

For a long moment, they just stood there, locked in a silent battle of wills that no one else in the room could understand. Finally, the rigid line of Sirius’s shoulders slumped. He gave a short, jerky nod, then turned and left the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving a profound and aching silence in his wake.

Sleep was a distant shore Remus couldn’t reach. The small, musty bedroom he’d been given felt like a coffin, the darkness pressing in on him. Every creak of the old house was a footstep, every whisper of the wind a Dementor’s sigh. He finally gave up, swinging his legs over the side of the narrow bed and pulling on his threadbare jumper. The floorboards were icy beneath his bare feet.

He wandered through the silent, sleeping house, his hand trailing along the grimy walls. A sliver of pale light bled from under the drawing-room door. Pushing it open, Remus found the source was not a lamp, but the moon, its thin light filtering through the tall, filthy windows.

And in that weak, silvery light stood Sirius.

He was before the great Black family tapestry, an immense, faded relic that covered an entire wall. Its silver and gold threads were tarnished, depicting a sprawling family tree that snaked back for centuries. Sirius’s back was to the door, his posture unnaturally stiff. He was staring intently at one spot on the cloth. Remus knew what it was without having to see it: a blackened, scorched hole, a permanent scar left by Walburga Black’s rage when she had blasted her own son from the family line.

“I used to think it was funny,” Sirius said, his voice quiet and devoid of any humor. He hadn’t turned, but he knew Remus was there. “A badge of honor. Proof that I wasn’t one of them.”

Remus walked slowly into the room, the dust motes dancing in the moonlight around him. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze fixed on the violent black burn mark. “You never were,” he said softly.

Sirius gave a short, bitter huff of air that was not a laugh. “She made sure of that.” He finally turned, and the moonlight carved sharp, tragic lines into his face. His eyes were dark pools of memory and pain. “Twelve years in a cell, surrounded by the worst filth imaginable… and somehow, this house feels worse. Every shadow, every portrait… it’s all her. I can still hear her screaming.”

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. The tremor was back. Remus felt a desperate urge to reach out, to still those trembling hands, but he remained frozen.

“I hate this place,” Sirius whispered, the words raw. He looked around the room, at the moth-eaten furniture and the peeling, serpentine wallpaper, as if the walls themselves were closing in on him. His gaze came back to Remus, and it was so intense, so stripped of all bravado, that Remus felt his own breath catch.

“It’s suffocating,” Sirius continued, his voice dropping even lower, so low Remus had to strain to hear it. “The only reason I can stand it… the only reason I haven’t gone completely mad since I got back… is you. Knowing you were coming back here.” He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the oppressive silence. “It’s only bearable because you’re here, Remus.”

The confession fell into the space between them, heavy and fragile all at once. It was not an absolution or a plea, but a simple, devastating statement of fact. Remus could find no words to answer it. He could only stand there, staring at the broken man before him, and feel the first, deep crack form in the wall that had stood between their hearts for twelve long years.