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

We Didn't Start the Fire

Andromeda,

Have you heard from Reg? I've sent him two letters in the last three days and he hasn't replied. Can't tell if he's not speaking to me because of my Sorting, or if it's because Warden Walburga is burning my letters.

I need to hear from him, even if he says he'll never speak to me again. I left him alone in that goddamned house.

Sirius

✦ - ☽ - ✧ - ☾ - ✦

Sirius,

Send me your letter to Regulus. I'll wrap it up in one of my own and send it to him. The Warden will be none the wiser.

He'll be okay, Siri. He loves you.

Andromeda

✦ - ☽ - ✧ - ☾ - ✦

Andromeda,

I've enclosed a letter. It's not very long, but... Merlin, I just need him to talk to me. I told him to send his reply to you.

Thank you.

✦ - ☽ - ✧ - ☾ - ✦

SEPTEMBER 7, 1971

On Tuesday morning, when Remus still hadn't returned, Sirius was starting to get antsy. He kept scanning the halls, scanning the faces surrounding the Gryffindor table, desperate for a glimpse of ridiculously curly, honey-brown hair. Presently, he was silently fuming at Annalise Morkin, a second year Ravenclaw, who had short, curly hair, just a shade or two lighter than Remus's. Every time he looked across the Hall, he caught sight of the back of her head and found himself almost calling out for Remus, only to sink back into his seat with a growing sense of dread.

Remus should have been back by now.

Merlin only knows what he's going through.

Sirius had been trying his best to continue on as if everything were normal. James and Peter certainly didn't think anything of Remus's absence, though, to be fair, they hadn't seen the fear in Remus's eyes when he'd said goodbye to Sirius on Sunday morning. Sirius was intimately familiar with that look; he saw it in the mirror every time he remembered the punishment Walburga had in store for him when he returned to Grimmauld Place for the Christmas holidays.

Still, as long as James and Peter were going to continue to be blissfully ignorant berks about the whole thing, then Sirius vowed to try his damnedest to pretend that everything was just fucking fine. He'd insisted on taking notes for Remus in Transfiguration yesterday, even though he found McGonagall's lecture on converting objects of a smaller mass into those of a significantly larger mass dolefully boring. But Remus had asked for notes, and Sirius was intent on delivering.

Yesterday in class, when McGonagall had come up for air, either to scold someone on improper wand motions or to write something on the chalkboard, Sirius had flicked his wrist. Peter's quill had instantly morphed into a rather large, brass candlestick. Peter, naturally, had let the thing drop and it had made an obnoxious series of clangs as it fell to the floor. McGonagall hadn't seen Sirius cast the spell, but she'd kept a rather watchful eye on him for the remainder of the class. At one point, she'd even snatched away Sirius's meticulous notes for Remus, because, "Taking notes and paying attention are simply out of character for you, Mr. Black," and, "I had ever reason to believe you were passing notes with Mr. Potter."

He'd wanted to snap back, tell McGonagall that she knew absolutely nothing about his character, but he'd managed to keep his mouth shut.

During the lesson's practical, Sirius hadn't managed to shake her ever-scrutinising gaze, so, just like the previous week, he'd been forced to transfigure the goose feather into a wooden spoon using his wand. Once again, his spoon came out a bit charred and bent at an odd angle, but McGonagall had deducted significantly fewer points than she had the first time. Sirius took this to mean that she'd been reluctantly impressed by his bit of wandless showmanship with Peter's quill, though he had no doubt she was still watching his every move, just waiting for some kind of slip up.