Sirius sat facing the wall, one arm extended to wrap around Buckbeak's foreleg: an anchor in an otherwise uncertain world. The view might have seemed dull to some: worn velor wall-hangings in faded golds covered knots in the original dark wood paneling. Sirius could close his eyes and see far more than he wished to see, could imagine all the evil going on in the world. The room was too large for his overactive imagination. He had grown used to sitting like this, facing the wall, in Azkaban. It suited him.
His eyes were burning. He could not stay awake much longer. He fought the nightmares off as long as he could, hated the way they came and the way they made him feel. Buckbeak nudged his shoulder, reassuring. Perhaps the animal could anticipate the coming storm.
Sirius wasn't afraid. He was inured to fear. But he would have preferred fear to this new feeling, a feeling that grew more overwhelming every day, a feeling far more dangerous than fear. Sirius knew enough of hopelessness to understand that it held more power over them than Voldemort ever could.