Marauders - Always - Part One

CLXXII: The Black Dog at Hogsmeade

The black dog lay in the shadow of the Three Broomsticks, ears pressed to his head, his yellow eyes peering out of the dark of the alley at the bustling road. Witches and wizards went past this way and that, carrying bundles and bags and chatting and waving hello to one another. Twice, Rosmerta had opened the back door of the pub and emptied a dust pan she'd swept up from inside, and Snuffles had pressed his paw over his snout to keep from inhaling it and sneezing. He didn't want Rosmerta to find him and shoo him away - the pub smelled of good food and eventually, he hoped, she would bring out the rubbish for the Ministry TRASH (Troublesome Remnants And Soil Handlers) to disappear from the bins. A bit of Rosmerta's cooking would warm him up and fill his stomach.

It had been a long journey to Hogsmeade and it had been punctuated with nothing more than horrid dreams and long, desperate stretches of thinking-thinking-thinking about the lack of correspondence from Remus. Was Remus alright? Was anyone checking on him? Supposedly Dumbledore had things under control, but Sirius didn't like that there was no responses back. Was Remus willfully ignoring the letters he wrote - so many owls had flown off carrying them that Sirius had lost count - or was Remus unable to answer? Injured in some way? Who would ever know if he was laying dead somewhere - wherever it was that the werewolves of his pack stayed?

He had lay under countless bridges, house porches, brush, and trees along the way, watching the progress of the moon as it waxed larger and waned smaller in the sky, his anxiety growing stronger and yearning deeper and deeper with each passing stage of the cycle... Memories flooded him and he saw them like flashes in front of his eyes. Remus's smile, his laughter, him turning 'round in a door way to stare at Sirius, the Costa Rica sun filtered through the greenery of their backyard, that soft heady smell of the plants in the heat and the salt of the ocean tangy in the back of his nose... They'd had bliss for such a short time. He wanted it back. He wondered if he'd ever get it.

The door of the Broomsticks banged opened suddenly, breaking him out of the reverie he'd fallen into. Rosmerta came out and with a wave of her wand a large rubbish bin floated out and landed in the alley in front of Snuffles. He could smell the remnants of meat pies and such and his stomach grumbled hungrily as Rosmerta slammed the door shut again.

He was eating ravenously of the scraps of food when he heard someone shout with excitement on the road. "Oliver Kent! My stars! I heard in the Prophet you were working with one of the Champions but I hadn't never thought I'd see you in Hogsmeade!"

Snuffles looked up from his fine dining experience of the scraps he'd fished from the garbage bin, bits of beef and potato falling from his doggy lips. He shook off and trotted down the alley to look out on the road.

Oliver Kent was much the same as he'd been when Sirius had seen him last, except that he was taller and broader. Though he had that sort of slackened look of one who had sort of wilted a bit from his prime, a bit of exhaustion in his eyes that he carried around his shoulders.

The dog watched as the man who had stopped him got himself an autograph from the famous Quidditch player. Sirius couldn't help but think about what James would have to say about the scene.

Knew it all along, he might brag. Of course he's famous, I'm the one that trained him after all... Sirius could almost hear James's smirk in his voice and it made his heart ache.

That's right, you did train'im, Prongsie. It's on account of you that he's where he's at.

Nice one, James.

Sirius stared at Oliver.

"I'm a bit jealous of Jasper, you know," James had said once.

Sirius had snorted, "What about Jasper do you find to be jealous about?"

James nodded at Oliver with his chin.

Sirius had looked over at the kid.

They were at the last Gryffindor Quidditch game at they attended together at Hogwarts.

Sirius watched Oliver play for a few moments. "You have Harry," he said.

James had smiled and his eyes twinkled with joy and pride and he nodded, "I have Harry."

But James never got the chance to teach Harry quidditch. Oliver was as good as a son to James, in a way, and Sirius felt suddenly very sorry to see the tiredness in Oliver's eyes, to see the slight lilt to his shoulders, the lines in his face that indicated he'd had it rough.

So when Oliver started to walk away from his adoring fan, Sirius trailed after him, keen to see where Oliver was staying.

It was the same Inn that Bilius Weasley had once stayed in, after Derek Bell had been killed. James and Sirius had run into him on a Hogsmeade weekend and he'd been pissed and drunken and rambling on about never taking your friends for granted.

That bloody inn was rather doomed for that sort of tenant, Sirius reckoned, as he watched Oliver Kent slip through the door, drawing a key from his pocket.

Part of him wanted to go inside, wanted to walk right in there and knock on Oliver's door and see what Oliver might do. Would he believe Sirius if he were to tell him the truth? Would he be an ally to Sirius? With his fame, could he help turn the tides in Sirius's favor? Or at least help him to hide, help him to find Remus Lupin, help him to help Harry and give he, Sirius himself, a shot at getting back to Costa Rica, back to that life they'd forged in that little cabin home?

But even giving him the chance would expose Sirius, wouldn't it? Would risk it all - risk his freedom, risk his ability to be with Remus at all, and, most of all, risk his access to help Harry through the challenge of the Triwizard Tournament.

And nothing - nothing at all, not even his husband - would come before Harry Potter in Sirius's heart.

His stomach growled and he remembered his abandoned meat pie.

So he turned, leaving the inn and Oliver Kent behind, heading into the trees toward the Shrieking Shack, which stood, creaky and dark, on the edge of the town. He didn't dare go in, he could see shadows moving through the dark windows. Dementors had been set within the house, no doubt searching for him, now that Snape had probably blabbed to the world that he, Sirius, has used the Shack as a means to access the castle. But as he stared, he felt his own dementor stir within him.

He wondered again where Remus Lupin was and if he was alright, and cast a fleeting look toward the sky, where the moon was climbing the horizon.