Getting out of Azkaban can't have been all bad for our dear Padfoot.
Disclaimer: Everything, including the unfortunately malicious little voice in Sirius' head, belongs to Ms. J. K. Rowling
Feelin' Good
Waking up outside of Azkaban prison had to rank as one of the best experiences of Sirius' life. If he was honest, it almost topped his and Remus' first kiss. Heavens above, that was blasphemous, but deliciously so.
Yes, the ground was hard. God, the cold was biting. It was raining a downpour and Merlin be worshipped if he could see more than a few feet ahead of him but the hard ground was free ground and the cold was natural, dawn in summer, almost bloody teeth chattering cold and the rain, heaven help him, was cool, beautiful, wet rain. He hadn't felt the rain on his skin for twelve endless years.
He wanted to sing, or scream or shout and yell and howl and laugh at the shear impossibility of his being there at all.
He was free. Free of despair and desolation and the foul stench of unwashed bodies and a more than unhealthy fear of eternal imprisonment. Free from the food. Sirius wrinkled his nose at the very memory of it.
Focus, Black, said a distinctly murderous sounding voice at the back of his head. Carry on like this and you won't be free for long.
Sirius laughed at it. "I don't bloody care!" He yelled hoarsely, the rain pattering against his upturned face. "I'm away. I'm bloody free!"
He decided against dancing, when a sudden movement on the wet leaves nearly sent him skidding. Broken bones would definitely not help in the escape from Azkaban and keep his soul intact plan.
Glancing down at his sodden prison robes, and the wet sheen on his bare chest, Sirius decided now would probably be a good time to regain some composure.
Where's the depression? He thought, and giggled a little. It made you so much more convincing.
Convincing as what? A homicidal maniac who had been put away for murdering two of his best mates and then laughing at the Aurors he'd worked with like a banshee on acid? Sirius snorted, feeling his good mood already beginning to slip away.
Here comes Cynical Sirius, sniggered the voice in his head. Hold on to your hats, kiddies, we're all in for a laugh now.
Sirius couldn't believe he was being mocked by his own subconscious. This was bad. This was worse than bad, it was a terrifying and definite sign that Azkaban had finally sent him round the bend. He groaned, and sunk back down between the protruding roots of the tree. The rain continued to clatter down and he suddenly felt very, very alone.
Hey, you've always got me, snickered the voice in his head.
"Ah gods," Sirius moaned. "I've lost it. Help me, Merlin, I've lost it."
He couldn't be blamed of course, but that wasn't really the point. He was going to have a hard time finding Peter, let alone clearing his name if he spent half the time as a gibbering idiot, dancing in a forest half naked and with no wand, and no magic to his name and the other half talking to his own, deranged subconsciousness.
What he really needed now was Moony.
His heart twinged painfully. Moony didn't know. Moony thought he was mad. The turncoat of the century. The blackest Black in a black lot. The boy who even Gryffindor couldn't turn good.
The murderer. Their murderer.
He let out a pitifully Padfoot like whine and buried his head in his grubby hands. It wasn't going to work. He should have stayed where he was and rotted away behind bars, or at least waited until the Dementors sucked out his soul. Not that there was much of that left. He wanted to cry, and was scared for a moment that the rain rushing down his face was a sign that he'd really let go. But no, his eyes stayed dry. Composure held, at least for the moment.
How was he ever going to face Remus? Or Harry? God, Harry. They'd tell him soon, if they hadn't already and he didn't think he could bear it. To be hated by Remus, who shouldn't be capable of such an emotion was horrible enough but to be hated by his own godson, by James' son? Sirius decided he would go mad. He would let himself go and the Dementors could have him.
Man up, Black! The voice of his subconscious sounded distinctly unimpressed. You might as well crawl back up to Azkaban with that bloody attitude.
He stared into his hands for what seemed like an age, before he felt his favourite emotion welling up. Something defiant was stirring inside Sirius Black and he let it splinter and blossom until it glinted in his eyes. He flexed his fingers lazily and let a bark of a laugh echo through the trees.
You got out for a reason, didn't you?
An image of Peter's raving face flared up in front of him and Sirius roared and lashed out at it across the barren forest floor.
I got out to kill him. A slow smile spread across Sirius' once handsome face. And kill him I bloody well will.
With eyes glowing like something decidedly more menacing than coals, the great black bear of a dog that was Padfoot leapt from the roots of the oak tree and began the hunt that he had waited for twelve years for.
In Egypt, Scabber's shuddered in Ron's bed.
Peter Pettigrew had the Grim on him.