A/N: I was craving some Sirius POV today, so I decided to write this.
I remember all of it. All of the pain, the misery, the cruelness that is and was Azkaban.
The description everyone gets of it seems like it would be horrible; but really, it is so much more than that. Have you ever looked back and thought, 'Wow, I am really regretting that move right about now'. Or perhaps, 'You know, that was a pretty hard time in my life'. Have you ever thought them day in and out, Dementors forcing you to relive the memories? I didn't think so. Well in Azkaban, it was all you could do to stay sane.
Most of them didn't in fact. Most of the scumbags that were in there rightfully deserved to be insane, and it kept me well to think that at least they were getting the punishments they earned. My idiot brother was enough of an example for me to never want to join Voldemort. It frightens me a bit to think that most of the Wizarding community fears his name. I believe Dumbledore once said, "Fear of the name only intensifies fear of the thing itself." Or something along those lines. Yes, I am very jumpy, and skipping subjects by the second, but with all I've been through, I think I deserve to be a little nutty.
The first few days I was there were so painful. I remember getting the shakes every time a Dementor even passed my cell. After the first year, though, I kind of got used to the wave of chill I got when they passed. It kept me alert. When I got there, I almost considered just giving up, and letting them kiss me. But images of a little baby boy, his jet-black hair rumpled, his vibrant green eyes shining, made me fight. 'Poor Harry, his life must be horrible.' I remember thinking. But the truth was, I had no idea what was going on with Harry. I felt bad for that, having finally reaching the title of 'Worst Godfather Alive'.
Sleeping and eating were probably the worst things about Azkaban. With sleeping, I was just plain paranoid. First of all, the Dementors were always around at night, making it IMPOSSIBLE to even get a wee bit comfy, and second, I was trapped inside a cell with a crowd of mass-murderers, psychopaths, and sexual harassers around my door. True, the Dementors were always there at night, but it still made my jump a foot in the air is I heard a footstep outside of my door.
The next problem was eating. In Azkaban, you are very closely watched. Even so, we had different punishments. Men and Women who only got sentenced for improper use of magic and things like that, worked in the kitchens all day, making dinner for the 3,000 or so who lived in that Hellhole. Even if they were only minor lawbreakers and underage wizards, I thought most of them wouldn't mind killing off a few more convicts, and that the guards probably wouldn't stop them from pouring poison all over our meals. If you could call them meals, really. They looked more like cat spit-up than food. I hardly ever ate, making it harder to stay strong, but worth it in the long run. One afternoon, a whole WARD of prisoners died because someone poured some kind of lethal acid in their food. No one was taken in for doing this, and I thought that they probably were congratulating the man who came up with the idea.
Sometimes during my imprisonment, I imagined it was all a dream. All of it was my mind playing games with me, and if I tried hard enough, I could wake up, be on James and Lily's sofa, and see a baby boy in front of me, shouting "Paffoot!"
A/N: No dialogue, but I like it. I don't know who or what inspired this incredibly short story, but whoever did, thanks. I was feeling depressed about numerous things before I wrote this, but now I'm happy! PAFFOOT!