Eyes and Nose of Azkaban
A cold room
Surprise was the first emotion that stirred the cold air. It was dull and plain at first, but it soon escalated into a shock as the bored wizard's mind slowly put things together. Wizard? For the amount of magic in here, he could as well have been a muggle. The only difference being a wizard made was being able to see his guards. As far as he had heard, muggles couldn't see them, although they could still feel their presence. Stranger it would be if someone would be capable of NOT feeling them.
Sirius Black dropped back on his simple bed, and waited for the last footsteps to die in the distance. It was cold in here, but he couldn't risk morphing with Ministry people still in sight. Dementors were blind, aurors were not. He was lucky they didn't get suspicious after seeing all the fur he'd shed. It was late spring; he couldn't help it.
So, Hagrid had been led away by a loudly apologizing (and shivering - yes, Azkaban did that to everyone) procession, and Sirius had been left to his thoughts. He heard Hagrid (Hagrid! HAGRID!) call the guards horrible and disgusting and unbearable. The spark of rivalry sprang to life in him. If that's the opinion of the half-giant raising werewolves under his bed, then it's up to Padfoot to be the first to... Well. He needed to think this through again. He curled up, and buried his nose under his tail.
For as far as he knew, dementors preferred warm, humid places full of life. Azkaban was barren, windy, horribly unlike the swamps these creatures originated from. After the twelve years he'd spent imprisoned, he could tell they didn't like this place anymore than the convicted inhabitants. Why were they forced to stay here? Because some of them were said to sympathize with We-Know-Who. Isn't that the same prejudice that befell the giants? Or werewolves; Sirius bitterly howled at the window's scarce light. Prongs and Lily had died because out of three friends, they had suspected the werewolf of treason... Just because he was a werewolf. Not telling Moony about the Fidelius charm had seemed only reasonable.
Now that he had faced his preconceptions, Sirius tried to look at the dementors like he had previously expected Hagrid to have done. Showing he could tell one from another would be a first step, he hoped. He uncurled so that his nose pointed in the direction where they'd bring dinner in a few hours. The one with the crooky hands was Skipps. Vaqqu had icy frostwork on his hood, and often on other parts of his clothing. The bulky one with the strange aura, not nearly as aggressive as the others', was Daire.
Who named them, Sirius wondered. Who would give an Irish name to a tropical creature? Wasn't that an insult to their true selves?
There. He was talking exactly like Hagrid. More so than the real one, he recalled.
He allowed himself a bitter smile.