Grey was a depressing colour.
The dull colour crept up Sirius' face during the night as he sat against the cold metal bars. He stayed up every night and watched the moonlight steal up the wall through the early hours of the morning.
Grey was the colour of moonlight tainted by the darkness of Azkaban and the stench of Dementors. Never white, it nearly blended into the walls, selfishly keeping its tranquil peace to itself.
Azkaban needed some peace.
In the cell across from Sirius', a woman paced restlessly. Sirius paid no attention to her. She was one of the quiet ones who had gone silent a long time ago. She had long, ragged brown hair that reached past her knees, and a deeply sunken and hollow face. She had been beautiful once, but now she was old and decrepit. Sirius felt that she had always been old, even before she had been sent to Azkaban; but now she was ancient.
She had been there longer than Sirius had, but he knew not how long. He had seen her watching him from her cage when they had first brought him in. She had stared at him the first three days when he had laughed and laughed. She had turned away when his laughter had died out until he too became a silent one.
And now, she was going to die. He knew this as plainly as he knew that he wasn't crazy, as plainly as he knew that Pettigrew was guilty, he was innocent and he and Harry would rebuild this shattered world of pureblood intrigue and family lies. It would happen. He wasn't crazy.
The air around them was cold, still and lifeless. Sirius had to huddle to stay warm. The grey moon cast the same grey shadow on the same grey wall.
And still the woman paced.
Sirius closed his eyes and listened. The small slap, as foot hit stone became erratic and scurried. She was running, running in circles. Running in the cold, grey world that stretched out endlessly, trying to escape the nightmare she was imprisoned in. But there was no endless grey plane. Only a small, finite cage that kept her on this cold, grey rock, in this cold, grey prison, in this cold, grey cage. Sirius hardened his heart against her plight. It was better to stay numb, and the problems of a crazy woman were not his to deal with.
She was one of the old ones. He wanted her to die with dignity—not as a rat, caged yet still running. Trying to find a way.
When he found Pettigrew, he swore that the rat would never find a way to escape ever again.
He wanted to turn around and beg her to be silent, to keep what was left of her pride, clutch it close to herself and die mute and untouchable. If he could, he would end her life himself….
The running, the pacing… his head fell forward.
Was he crazy for wishing the death of one of his own? True, there had been no camaraderie between them, yet she was dignified through her silence. Through her silence she stayed unnoticed by the living passing by them—their faces turning grey with pain and loss.
Sirius had lost everything.
So would Pettigrew.
On quiet days, Sirius could close his eyes and imagine what it would be like to kill Pettigrew. He ran it through his head this way and that, until the infinite possibilities overwhelmed him with a cold joy. The sharp rapture would enthral him until he was tricked back into the harsh reality within the cold, grey walls. But now he i knew /i he wasn't crazy. He could feel the thrill of imminent revenge as crisply as he could feel the vitality of the grey faces of the living as they passed through. He could feel the deep sense of hopelessness when the Dementors drew near as clearly as he could feel death emanating from the woman's cage. He knew he wasn't crazy and he knew that she was going to die.
Tonight, the moon would wait. He turned and pressed his forehead against the bars.
And he waited. The moon rose higher and higher in the sky. The cold, grey light rested upon his face.
"I had a son." The voice rasped from years of disuse. It was barely discernible, even on this cold, grey night.
Sirius did not open his eyes.
"He looked like you."
Pause.
"Acted like you too."
The woman leaned with her back against the bars, her legs curled up loosely. Her thin black and white prison robes had turned the dingy colour of grey, and as she sat there, Sirius saw for the first time, a ghost. Alive or dead, he did not know. But he sat, head against the bars, eyes open, and listening to the last words.
"I've been in this prison… a very long time. It's better not to count the days. You know this. You are sane too." She paused, trying to gain control of her voice.
"I am here," she said slowly. "Because I murdered my son." She stopped completely and Sirius saw her head tilt up towards the ceiling.
"Yes. I did murder him. And I am not sad. Not anymore."
Sirius closed his eyes out of respect. She i was /i sane. Perhaps more so than he was.
"I was a very proud woman. Very vain. I had a life. I had a husband. I had a son. I had a daughter. I had a house. Now, I have these robes on my back and these memories of life. Memories of my insanity.
"I am sane now because I feel that I was insane to begin with. My son and my daughter were the most perfect, beautiful suns in my world. They were the centre of my life's play—the drama of a rich, pureblood woman.
"So, I guess that it is rather fitting that in this drama there was love, betrayal, secrets." Her voice never wavered from her scratchy monologue as she continued.
"My son. My beautiful, beautiful, wonderful, handsome, smart son… He fell in love with a Mudblood." She paused. "Oh, how i depressed /i I was! My world, falling apart, and at the epicentre of it all: my beloved son.
"Depression grew to panic, which came upon to anger and hurt. My…rage. It became so, dark and…deadly." She paused again and took a deep, gasping breath. "I was not myself when I looked into his eyes for the last time."
Another pause.
"I wish I was when I did."
Sirius' eyes clenched shut. No. Why him? Why did he have to be the one to listen to this?
He felt, rather than saw, the life slide out from the woman. Nameless forever, she was finally free. But did she deserve it? Hatred boiled up from deep within him as he thought of the woman's dead son—murdered for loving someone she had deemed beneath them. Sirius was almost glad her son was dead. She deserved the pain. She deserved the loss.
He felt the cold approaching and he knew that the Dementors were coming. He did not scuttle to the far side of his prison like he heard the other prisoners do. Instead, he sat there, watching as they lifted the body from the cell. The man in the cell to the left of him was screeching with agony.
"MOTHER!" the man screamed. He was new to the prison, Sirius remembered.
Sirius turned his back on the scene and rested the back of his head against the bars.
'Mother won't be here to help.' he thought bitterly.
A towering, formidable lady stood over him and he felt a sharp blow on his skull, he was pitched forward into the darkness.
He was sane.
"Please, Mother, no!" he cried as four legs collapsed and a small, furry head hit the ground.
He would escape.
He lugged his trunk down the hallway, travelling cloak on and ready to go. A pair of narrowed eyes watched from a doorway.
He would be free.
James, Remus, Harry… wait for me.
Grey was a depressing colour.