He let his head fall on to his chest, not in despair, but in pain. It
was nearing twelve years since he had been thrown into that desolate
prison, and the cries of the mad plagued his already troubled mind.
Briefly, he glanced up as a tray of mush, called food, was shoved into his
cell, but he did not move to take it.
His matted hair hung in clumps around his face, caked with dirt and prison muck. Derived from the face of the sun, his skin had become a pale, sickly yellow, and he did not need the reflection his face cast on the water that pooled on the dirt packed ground when it rained to know that he was a hideous, terrifying creature to look upon.
And his mind was plagued with thoughts of The Rat. Always it was there; teasing him, torturing him, and leading him into bleak places in which he had no desire to explore. The Rat had taken from him everything that had mattered; his life, his freedom, and, most of all, James. James had been everything he had every wanted and aspired to be. He was daring, witty, charming, adventurous, and understanding. People used to say that he and James were closer than friends... they were brothers. And now they said that he had betrayed his friend, and killed his wife, Lily, and their son...Harry.
Exactly what was Harry like? The man wondered. Was he like James? Like Lily? Was he still living with those abominable Dursleys? Did he ever know of his parents and the their world? He thought of Harry often, imagining the conversations he would have with the boy, the jokes they would share, and the secrets of Hogwarts that they could uncover together. Not that he would ever meet Harry. Oh no, he was a murderer, a traitor. He was the last person Harry would be allowed to see...or that Harry would want to see. He wondered if Harry even knew about him. But it was probably better if the boy didn't. The man shuddered to think of the pain, rage, and hatred Harry would feel towards him if he to were subjected to the many lies that now circulated about his Godfather.
But more than Harry, he thought about the rat. He reminisced over every meeting that they had had, scrutinizing every comment for a clue, a clue that he should have picked up at the time, a clue that would have allowed him to save the Potters. But there were none. The Rat had been clever, leaving no clues, and hiding behind his façade of stupidity. And they now respected the rat as a hero! It was unbearable to think upon. If only They knew the truth.
But he would never be allowed the chance to explain. He would stay here, and rot in Azkaban to the delight of the "good" people; the respectable ones who hadn't betrayed their friends to Voldemort. Or rather he-who-must-not-be-named as they foolishly called him.
"Ah, Sirius Black," A loud, booming voice ringing with undertones of fear, and repulsion boomed outside the doors of his cell.
The man, Sirius, was yanked out his thoughts, and adjusted himself to hearing the sound of his name again. It had been so long... The Dementors never said anything. They just stared at things, with un-existent eyes, and their mouth, waiting, always waiting to such the souls out of their victims.
"Don't look to good do you?"
The voice was a mocking one, with not even the smallest trace of pity. "I wouldn't expect to." Sirius's voice came out as a croak. He was unused to speaking, after many long years alone he was only fluent in his mind, and verbal words did not come without effort.
"Well, you deserve this you know," The voice replied. It was a man, obviously, but not a confidant one. His voice quavered slightly as he spoke; though all voices did when in Azkaban. That was the effect of the dementors.
Sirius did not say anything, merely waited. But for what he did not know.
"Do you know who I am?" The voice said next.
Sirius squinted through the iron bars that encompassed his tiny cell.
"No, should I?" It was amazing how such once effortless things now required work and concentration. He cringed at the sound of his own voice, which sounded like the scraping of knives against a whetstone.
"Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, and order of Merlin, first class," the man said now, with superficial confidence.
On all fours, Sirius crawled towards the minister, not to get closer to the man who possessed such powerful titles, but because of the thing in which the minister clutched in his right hand.
"Azkaban turned you into a dog?" The minister asked with a forced chuckle.
"Oh no, Azkaban does not get credit for that... a stag, a rat, and a werewolf however, do," Sirius replied, taking savage pleasure in the bafflement he saw in the man's face. Sirius had reached the bars now, and he drew himself up, onto his knees, clutching the iron bars in a savage grip.
"Er, yes... well..." the minister said uncomfortably, "I have much to do, and I don't think I shall tarry any longer..." He turned as if to leave, and flinched when the pallid, wasted hand shot out from the bars and clutched his cloak with a mad fervor.
"Please," Sirius hissed, "let me have that paper!"
The minister turned to face the convicted murdered, snatching his robes out of the skeletal hand. "Why?"
Sirius's eyes gleamed as he stared at the picture under the large words "The Daily Prophet," but he could not afford to tell the stupid man what he really wanted. "I miss doing the crossword puzzles," Sirius finally said, shrugging, eyes never moving from the paper.
With raised eyebrows, and a perplexed expression fixed upon his face so comfortably it was apparent to Sirius that this was an emotion the minister usually felt, he handed over the paper.
Sirius snatched it out of the outstretched hand, before the minister could change his mind, and clutched it to the chest with one arm, already strengthening with the promise of hope, and forced out a grin.
The minister recoiled immediately, and, with a murmured "farewell" fairly ran back out onto the narrow strip of sand that surrounded the Island of Azkaban prison.
Sirius did not say anything more, but unfolded the paper with unnerving fervor. He stared at the picture for a long time, eyes fixed on the creature so calmly seated on a young boys shoulder. Then, Sirius threw back his head and laughed with fury, joy, and madness. It was The Rat! The Rat who had eluded him for so long. But now, at long last, he had located the treacherous thing. Already at Hogwarts, positioned to kill James and Lily's legacy. Oh, but he would not succeed. Sirius knew he must protect the Potter boy, and avenge himself on the rat. He would save Harry; he owed James this.
Invigorated now, and running over various courses of revenge, Sirius passed the night in excited fervor. And when the first light of Dawn seeped into the cracks of his cell, the man disappeared, and a great black dog squeezed itself out of the prison, eyes hungry and wild.
Not a single Dementor noticed, only a woman with black hair and hooded eyes watched him go; dark eyes raging with both laughter and hate.
It was the beginning of the end for both The Dog and The Rat.
His matted hair hung in clumps around his face, caked with dirt and prison muck. Derived from the face of the sun, his skin had become a pale, sickly yellow, and he did not need the reflection his face cast on the water that pooled on the dirt packed ground when it rained to know that he was a hideous, terrifying creature to look upon.
And his mind was plagued with thoughts of The Rat. Always it was there; teasing him, torturing him, and leading him into bleak places in which he had no desire to explore. The Rat had taken from him everything that had mattered; his life, his freedom, and, most of all, James. James had been everything he had every wanted and aspired to be. He was daring, witty, charming, adventurous, and understanding. People used to say that he and James were closer than friends... they were brothers. And now they said that he had betrayed his friend, and killed his wife, Lily, and their son...Harry.
Exactly what was Harry like? The man wondered. Was he like James? Like Lily? Was he still living with those abominable Dursleys? Did he ever know of his parents and the their world? He thought of Harry often, imagining the conversations he would have with the boy, the jokes they would share, and the secrets of Hogwarts that they could uncover together. Not that he would ever meet Harry. Oh no, he was a murderer, a traitor. He was the last person Harry would be allowed to see...or that Harry would want to see. He wondered if Harry even knew about him. But it was probably better if the boy didn't. The man shuddered to think of the pain, rage, and hatred Harry would feel towards him if he to were subjected to the many lies that now circulated about his Godfather.
But more than Harry, he thought about the rat. He reminisced over every meeting that they had had, scrutinizing every comment for a clue, a clue that he should have picked up at the time, a clue that would have allowed him to save the Potters. But there were none. The Rat had been clever, leaving no clues, and hiding behind his façade of stupidity. And they now respected the rat as a hero! It was unbearable to think upon. If only They knew the truth.
But he would never be allowed the chance to explain. He would stay here, and rot in Azkaban to the delight of the "good" people; the respectable ones who hadn't betrayed their friends to Voldemort. Or rather he-who-must-not-be-named as they foolishly called him.
"Ah, Sirius Black," A loud, booming voice ringing with undertones of fear, and repulsion boomed outside the doors of his cell.
The man, Sirius, was yanked out his thoughts, and adjusted himself to hearing the sound of his name again. It had been so long... The Dementors never said anything. They just stared at things, with un-existent eyes, and their mouth, waiting, always waiting to such the souls out of their victims.
"Don't look to good do you?"
The voice was a mocking one, with not even the smallest trace of pity. "I wouldn't expect to." Sirius's voice came out as a croak. He was unused to speaking, after many long years alone he was only fluent in his mind, and verbal words did not come without effort.
"Well, you deserve this you know," The voice replied. It was a man, obviously, but not a confidant one. His voice quavered slightly as he spoke; though all voices did when in Azkaban. That was the effect of the dementors.
Sirius did not say anything, merely waited. But for what he did not know.
"Do you know who I am?" The voice said next.
Sirius squinted through the iron bars that encompassed his tiny cell.
"No, should I?" It was amazing how such once effortless things now required work and concentration. He cringed at the sound of his own voice, which sounded like the scraping of knives against a whetstone.
"Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, and order of Merlin, first class," the man said now, with superficial confidence.
On all fours, Sirius crawled towards the minister, not to get closer to the man who possessed such powerful titles, but because of the thing in which the minister clutched in his right hand.
"Azkaban turned you into a dog?" The minister asked with a forced chuckle.
"Oh no, Azkaban does not get credit for that... a stag, a rat, and a werewolf however, do," Sirius replied, taking savage pleasure in the bafflement he saw in the man's face. Sirius had reached the bars now, and he drew himself up, onto his knees, clutching the iron bars in a savage grip.
"Er, yes... well..." the minister said uncomfortably, "I have much to do, and I don't think I shall tarry any longer..." He turned as if to leave, and flinched when the pallid, wasted hand shot out from the bars and clutched his cloak with a mad fervor.
"Please," Sirius hissed, "let me have that paper!"
The minister turned to face the convicted murdered, snatching his robes out of the skeletal hand. "Why?"
Sirius's eyes gleamed as he stared at the picture under the large words "The Daily Prophet," but he could not afford to tell the stupid man what he really wanted. "I miss doing the crossword puzzles," Sirius finally said, shrugging, eyes never moving from the paper.
With raised eyebrows, and a perplexed expression fixed upon his face so comfortably it was apparent to Sirius that this was an emotion the minister usually felt, he handed over the paper.
Sirius snatched it out of the outstretched hand, before the minister could change his mind, and clutched it to the chest with one arm, already strengthening with the promise of hope, and forced out a grin.
The minister recoiled immediately, and, with a murmured "farewell" fairly ran back out onto the narrow strip of sand that surrounded the Island of Azkaban prison.
Sirius did not say anything more, but unfolded the paper with unnerving fervor. He stared at the picture for a long time, eyes fixed on the creature so calmly seated on a young boys shoulder. Then, Sirius threw back his head and laughed with fury, joy, and madness. It was The Rat! The Rat who had eluded him for so long. But now, at long last, he had located the treacherous thing. Already at Hogwarts, positioned to kill James and Lily's legacy. Oh, but he would not succeed. Sirius knew he must protect the Potter boy, and avenge himself on the rat. He would save Harry; he owed James this.
Invigorated now, and running over various courses of revenge, Sirius passed the night in excited fervor. And when the first light of Dawn seeped into the cracks of his cell, the man disappeared, and a great black dog squeezed itself out of the prison, eyes hungry and wild.
Not a single Dementor noticed, only a woman with black hair and hooded eyes watched him go; dark eyes raging with both laughter and hate.
It was the beginning of the end for both The Dog and The Rat.