The dog paced in circles. Not impatiently however. He had realized long ago that there was no point in wasting the energy, mentally and physically. A chill rippled through the air, causing the dog to tense, pausing in its stride slightly before continuing on, it's paws padding against the ground in a limitless circle. It was March. It was expected to be cold, but this was different. This was a supernatural type of cold. The kind that sent random chills up your spine. The kind that tickled your back in the dark.
They came every half hour and with them came the cold and the moans of other prisoners in their cells. Some would scream at invisible figures. Others would mutter to themselves and those who were the worst were practically catatonic, curled into balls in dark corners. It was a miserable place. A prison for the worst and even the menial. Even an hour in Azkaban was almost too much to bear for most people. Imagine what the dog felt, locked up in there for almost 10 years.
But he was lucky. Most people would have lost their minds within a year. The isolation, the dark, the cold, the memories. Every half hour, the faceless cloaked figures would drift by their windows, breathing in their shallow and bone-chilling whispers. Misery. That was all that was left once the Dementors had passed. They took your happiness and forced you to remember your worst memories.
11 Years ago
Grey eyes stared at the stone wall in front of them. Slumped against the wall, his clothes ragged and smelly after 3 months of wearing them. His once silky and smooth hair hung in tangles at his shoulders, his face gaunt and pale from lack of sunlight. 22 and he wa incarcerated. Didn't call him a bad boy for nothing back in school. Only it was for nothing-well, not nothing. He didn't do anything. The rat did.
The scene was fresh in his mind. The scared and pleading look of his former friend as he begged for his life. His grip on his own wand, shaking in rage. Remus told him not to go. The night ended with a crowd of muggles dead, a finger from the cowardly traitor, and a grief-stricken Sirius Black. So unable to understand how he had come to have not only two of his best friends dead, but having another best friend being held responsible, he had laughed. Loudly. Insanely. Murderously though he had committed no crime. They committed the crime. Voldemort The rat. The damn Minister who hadn't even given him a trial. And they didn't even let him see Harry.
He shook now. Not just from rage, but from grief-and guilt.
"Sirius, I want you to be our Secret Keeper."
He had been shocked. They were putting their lives in his hands. Of course, he was their best friend. Harry's first word had been 'Padfoot' for Godric's sake. He was obvious choice and that was the problem. They would know. If there was a Secret Keeper, it was most likely Sirius-which is why he suggested Peter. It was a dark time. Loyalties were questioned, and though Sirius knew that his friend would never betray him, he had a nagging doubt that Remus could not be trusted and for a reason that disgusts him to this day-he was a werewolf. Thus, Peter was made the Secret Keeper-and Lily and James Potter died on October 31st, 1981.
He tightened his jaw, trembling. Pulling in his knees, he brought his hands to his face. His skin was cold and he didn't even realize that his whole body in fact was cold. The Dementors had arrived, and with them, the haunting.
"Sirius."
"Padfoot"
Names.
"We want you to be our Secret Keeper."
"Yes, yes," Sirius answered desperately though he knew no one would reply.
Then another voice spoke. One that he had not heard in years.
"Sirius, why? You know Mum and Dad don't approve but I do. But you have to hang around with that-"
"James Potter, at your service!"
"Stop," he whispered. Gone. James was gone.
"See, Padfoot's got my back!"
He did, except when it mattered.
"Go! Stop him before he gets to the grounds! To the willow!"
"But your leg-" Sirius muttered.
"Little cut, Padfoot. Peter can't handle him by himself-aah!"
Sirius cringed at the moan of pain, the one time that the wolf had been too strong and Prongs had gotten hurt.
"Sirius, I need to join him."
His eyes widened. "No, Reg don't."
"I need to join him."
"Don't Reg!"
"I need to join him."
"Alright, Peter it is." James-
"Harry loves Halloween." That night. The Potter's had planned a Halloween party but Remus and Sirius couldn't be there until later. Sirius had his motorcycle repaired and he would be picking it up from the shot on the way to the cottage. James's voice continued. "He's been going mad with all these green-skinned witches." The bodyless voice laughed. "I dunno about the skin, but the one with the eyes- gorgeous. Merlin, I'm a lucky man. I'll see you tonight for the party?"
Sirius had nodded with a grin. Wouldn't miss it, he had said. Not a second late.
But he was late and instead of a party, he had found a murder scene.
"I need to join him."
"-Halloween-"
But you'll die.
"I need to join him."
"-Halloween-"
But you'll die.
The voice spoke in unison. "I need to join-" "-Halloween-"
"STOP IT!" he screamed. His hands clawed at his ears and he slumped to the ground, tucking his knees against his chest. "You'll die. You'll die. Don't-please." The voices screamed at him, filling his ears in a cacophony of memories until-
The cold left and a slight warmth filled his chest. The Dementors were gone-for the moment. He couldn't do that again. Not again. It was the worst today, almost as bad as it was a month ago. Swallowing, he glanced at the lines etched into the wall that had served as his calendar. March 27. As a hot tear slid to the floor from the corner of his eye, he whispered, "Happy Birthday, James."
Dogs can't feel emotion-at least, not as vividly as humans. Their minds can't process the memories and feel the pain as a man. This was how he kept his sanity. His refuge was in Padfoot, the large, shaggy, black dog. He was his shield whenever the dementors passed. He was the reason why he was still sane. He was indifferent and angry. It didn't make sense. He had learned how even in human form how to not show his true emotions, instead putting on a cool, bored demeanor when inside he was seething in a nearly 12 year old rage.
Once the dementors had passed, he returned to his human form, seating himself against the wall. He had changed, he realised, glancing into the small mirror on the wall. He had grown a beard. In school he had once grown a beard for fun the moment that he gained the ability to grow facial hair. This was not that beard. That beard was carefully groomed while this one was shaggy and ragged. He was skinnier-bonier. His once handsome face, though it still held some of its charm, had turned gaunt. Yet some things didn't change. His eyes for instance. Intensely grey and mischievous, they had allured many of the school girls at Hogwarts. They were good for getting what he wanted and right now, what he wanted was the newspaper. He was bloody bored.
A guard whistled as strolled past the cells, his newspaper tucked under his arm, head facing forward and avoiding looking at the inmates as much as he could. Naturally, it wasn't that much of a surprise when he nearly had a stroke when Sirius spoke. "Excuse me sir, might I have the newspaper. I've missed doing the crossword." Strangely his voice wasn't croaky as he expected. Though older, it had retained its rich smoothness and natural charm.
The guard seemed a bit unsettled but seeing Sirius's relaxed demeanor, he relented, using his wand to levitate the newspaper into Sirius's outstretched hands.
"A good day to you sir," Sirius nodded, turning to the newspaper and straightening it in his hands, humming softly as the guard nodded politely and continued down the corridor.
Sirius glanced at the date. It was March, 1993. I've been here for 12 years. 12 years of his life sentence. Harry would be 12, turning 13 in July. He had heard about Harry over the years. His godson was the boy-who-lived. Last year he went to the Hogwarts. I didn't get to see him off the platform.
He didn't get to do a lot of things but at least Harry had made friends. In fact, he had made friends with a Weasley and a muggleborn. James and Lily would have been proud.
Shaking his head out of his stupor, he glanced at the headline. Speak of the Devil. The Weasley's had gone to Egypt. Ah, and there's the boy. Ron Weasley, Harry's friend holding a rat-with 9 fingers.
He almost didn't believe it. The rat was alive and with the Weasley's. And not just with any Weasley. Harry's best friend.
"Wormtail-"
He shook, his stomach churning in renewed rage. The rat had been living within 10 feet of the son of James and Lily for two years.
"How dare he."
He jumped up, throwing the paper against the wall and again transforming, pacing for another reason besides boredom. He was planning. He wouldn't spend another day here. Not with a murderer and a traitor within feet of his godson. He would get out. Azkaban would hold Sirius Black no longer.