Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters
He couldn't remember ever having been so cold. It was the kind of cold that sank deep into the bones, freezing the marrow, slowing the flow of blood through his veins. Even his brain felt sluggish. He had never fully appreciated the phrase "chilled to the bone" until he had set foot in Azkaban. Nor had he ever known the primal smell of fear or insanity. He had never been so uncomfortable that he wanted to crawl out of his own skin and slink away unnoticed. He had never known such dread as he felt each year knowing the annual inspection of the wizarding prison was approaching.
Cornelius Fudge hated this aspect of his job description as Minister of Magic above all else. The mess of politics seemed frivolous in comparison to the long, joyless hours he was forced to spend examining the prison. While he was convinced that all the residents were guilty of their respective crimes and deserved just punishment, he could not help but feel sympathetic towards them this one day per year. Their constant moaning, muttering, hissing, screaming, whimpering, and weeping—it was enough to send a chill down any man's spine to hear them rapidly progress into insanity. Fudge had witnessed men decay from year to year, seen that spark of something innately human leave their eyes. Fudge fully intended to keep his visit short.
Guards accompanied the Minister as he made his way past each cell, checking to see if their cells were up to standards. Dementors were evicted from the corridors while Fudge was present, as a convenience. The Minister was sure that the prisoners appreciated it too, though none of them were in a state fit enough to tell him. Bellatrix Lestrange's unwavering glare sent him along quickly, eyes trained to his clipboard.
As he made his way to the last cell in the corridor, he looked up and started when he realized which one he'd reached. This was the stop Fudge dreaded the most. A pale, sallow face turned up to gaze at him, almost thoughtfully. "Hello, Minister," the prisoner's voice rasped, unaccustomed to use. "Is it inspection time again already?"
Sirius Black. Known loyal supporter of You-Know-Who. The man who ruthlessly murdered twelve muggles and one wizard the very same night he betrayed his supposed best friends, subsequently causing to their deaths. Fudge remembered that when Black had still been in school, both Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall had pinned him to be one of the top aurors of the century. They believed that he could help influence the course of the war. And so he had.
Fudge was there that night. He had seen Black for himself, the epicenter of the explosion, seemingly oblivious to the carnage and debris surrounding him. Black's laughter was infamous, reported about over and over in the following months; but very few actually knew what it had sounded like, the eerie misplacement of emotion. Fudge could count himself as one of the unlucky few.
But Fudge was caught off guard by Black's question, or rather the fact that he was able to verbalize a coherent thought at all. Composing himself, the Minister cleared his throat and politely replied, "Why, yes it is, Black."
That could have been the end of it. That should have been the end of it. But, sick and twisted as Black was, Fudge found himself intrigued by him. In all his years, he had never had a prisoner speak so calmly, so collectedly to him. They either muttered unintelligibly to themselves, or they sobbed, beseeching him to let them go. When Black first arrived, he was much the same. At first he cried out, asking for forgiveness. Later he quieted down, speaking lowly to himself, though Fudge couldn't (and didn't care to) understand. In the past few years, Fudge had either caught him sleeping, or when he was awake, simply staring at the damp stone wall opposite him mutely. This was the first time in twelve years he acknowledged the Minister's presence.
Against his better judgment, Fudge was fascinated. Black was one of the most heavily guarded prisoners in Azkaban—Dementors literally swarmed around his cell constantly—and yet, sitting against the stone wall of his cell, he merely seemed bored. And so, Fudge continued, "How are you, Mr. Black?"
Black raised an eyebrow and Fudge mentally slapped himself. He's in Azkaban, Cornelius, Fudge chided himself. How do you think he is doing?
Black looked around his cell for a moment, as if assessing the situation. "I've had better days," he commented dryly a ghost of a smirk playing about his lips. A short silence hung between them as each pondered the absurdity of their conversation thus far. "What about you, Minister?" Black asked, standing up and dusting himself off as best he could. Fudge noted the thick layer of grime that remained on his skin. "I know this is hardly your favorite day of the year, but that aside, how are you?" Black looked genuinely interested. "Polls up?" he asked, the smirk returning, baring yellow teeth.
Fudge was baffled into a momentary stupor. Sirius Black—Sirius Black—had just asked after his wellbeing in the most polite manner, as if they were old buddies. Fudge simply didn't know what to make of the man. He had to have been the most well-mannered convicted murderer he had ever known. "Not too terrible," he answered. "I really have nothing to complain about. Though I am glad that I only have to visit here once a year," he added as an afterthought as a sudden wave of cold clenched at his gut. He didn't mean to taunt Black, just make conversation. Oddly enough, he was quite easy to talk to.
"Well, I don't blame you for that one," Black conceded, stretching a bit. "This place is quite dreadful, for lack of a better word. It's cold, unnerving, no one ever sleeps, the Dementors are relentless…" He drifted off, staring past Fudge, pale eyes simultaneously empty and haunted, though Fudge could not fathom how that was possible. Black blinked, eyes coming back to focus, and he continued on as before. "But mostly it's just boring." Black sighed, leaning back against the wall behind him. "Once a bloke's put in here, he's just left to his thoughts, you know? I mean, the Dementors come through and make you relive—" Here Black grimaced, but fought to go on. "But other than that, all we can really do is think. I've been trying to convince the janitor that comes through here every couple of months to loan me some books, but he always looks at me funny and scuttles off." He rolled his eyes. Suddenly, he spotted the newspaper that Fudge had clipped beneath his notes on the clipboard. The Minister had been reading about the Weasleys' trip to Egypt on the monotonous boat ride over to the prison. Pointing to it, Black asked, "Are you finished with that, Minister? You've no idea how much I miss doing the crossword."
Fudge's jaw nearly dropped to the floor. Sirius Black doing the crossword in Azkaban? The conversation continued to get stranger and stranger, and Fudge could not help but think he was dreaming. Silently, he unclipped The Daily Prophet from his clipboard and handed it through the bars. The guards surrounding him stiffened, ready to stun Black if he tried anything. A grin stretched across his gaunt face as he pushed himself off the wall. He took it gingerly from the Minister's hands, taking care to over exaggerate the display for the guards.
As Fudge watched him, Black unfolded the paper to the front page and scanned it. The grin promptly dropped from his face. Eyes wide, Black stared at the cover as if he had received an epiphany of sorts.
Confused, and slightly suspicious, Fudge asked, "Erm, Mr. Black? Is everything alright?"
Black snapped out of his revere and turned his attention to Fudge. He blinked a few times and lightly shook his head, regaining a smile that didn't seem to reach his eyes. "Oh, it's nothing really, Minister. I just saw this picture and recognized my cousin, Molly Prewitt—or Weasley, I guess it is now," he said, glancing back at the article. "So she really did marry Arthur…" Black whispered to himself, seemingly distracted.
One of the guards behind Fudge cleared his throat loudly. Fudge jumped, startled, and turned to face them. Black seemed not to have heard, still engrossed in the paper. The guard jerked his head, indicating that they should move on. The Minister flushed slightly; he had been so fascinated by Black that he had completely forgotten his purpose in Azkaban in the first place. Turing back to the prisoner, Fudge addressed him a final time. "Well, Mr. Black, I must be going. You can keep the paper if you like. Until next year." Black, however, did not respond. He was glaring determinedly at the cover of the Prophet.
Over the course of the following year, when the subject of Black's escape came up—and it came up often—Fudge could not help but feel a pang of guilt. It was reported that Black had been talking about Harry Potter in his sleep, that he was at Hogwarts. Rationally, Fudge knew that the only way Black could have obtained that information was from the newspaper he had received from the Minister. And though Fudge had not directly helped Black escape, he often felt like an accomplice.
Fudge was unsettled at Black's lack of reply, but he nodded to the guards anyway, and they began the gloomy march to the next cell. Fudge was making a few notes on his clipboard when Black called out, "I'm innocent, you know."
The Minister and his guards stopped and turned to regard the prisoner. "Mr. Black," Fudge began slowly, "there are witnesses that saw you murder those people. There is solid evidence that you were the Potters' secret keeper, and therefore you are the only person who could have betrayed their location. You expect us to believe you did not kill them"
"Oh, no, I killed them," Black whispered. The empty, haunted look was creeping back into his eyes. "I don't deny that I killed Lily and James. But I'm innocent."
Fudge turned sharply on his heel and stalked away from the cell. He had wasted too much time with Black. It seemed that Black had not been unaffected by Azkaban after all.