Forgotten. I have been forgotten. They do not even know my name.
Even here in the dimmest, most heart-rendingly lost corners of Azkaban, most people have names. Not me.
I had a name once. What's more, I had people who loved me, who knew my name, who called me by it and told me their names. People I loved. They were a part of me once.
Now I don't have a name. As far as the Ministry of Magic is concerned, I never existed. All those who knew me are dead or well-paid to keep their mouths shut, anyway. Or maybe they simply forgot.
I have had far too much time to debate this subject with myself, think of it again and again, turn it over in the pits of my mind. Fifteen years in Azkaban leaves plenty of time to think, if you're still sane, of course. But I think, I think this every day of my existence, my struggle to keep breathing in this corner of a cell, how could everyone just forget I existed? I lived. I breathed. I loved. Yet I have managed to leave no mark on the world I came from. Just as I will leave no mark here when I go.
My name does not matter – were I to tell it to you, it would have no meaning, you would find no record of it anywhere else. Perhaps you would forget it like all the rest. Let me identify myself in a simpler, less dangerous manner than a name: I loved Sirius Black.
I was young. No – we were young. All of us. Our teachers at Hogwarts said we were thick as thieves, that's how they always described us. But the stories always tell of James and Sirius and Lupin and Peter, never of the rest of us – me or Lily or the others. But that doesn't really matter, not anymore, no one really cares. Specialists from the Ministry have analyzed "dangerous trends" in yesterday's youth over and over, studying the lives of those who turned dark, key players in the last days of He-Who-Must-Not- Be-Named's regime. They've been over and over the facts of the Potter-Black- Lupin-Pettigrew files. Why bother with the secondary players?
Oh, those were wonderful days, back then – before the darkness descended upon the unsuspecting wizarding world, before the days when you trusted no one and no one trusted you either. We were young, we were all happy, we never thought we'd end up dead or in Azkaban. All of us, thinking everyone in our little group of friends was so far from turning dark and were all banded together in fighting the Dark Lord. No one ever suspected the truth about Lupin's monthly illnesses, or Pettigrew's curious affinity with rats and ratting others out.
For a time, everything was right, and we were sure the darkness would never reach our happy little games. James and Lily were head boy and girl, Remus was getting better and even getting a few dates, Peter was…well, he was Peter, and he was always strange. And I had Sirius. He was always into some kind of slight trouble, but he was lovable. So lovable.
My life literally ended when he was convicted and imprisoned in Azkaban.
Literally. No one suspected a thing, no one. Not even me.
…I remember…not too long before it all, we danced at Lily and James's wedding – and he held me, and I was so stupid. Stupid enough to think that maybe one day he would marry me. When I think that I took such simple things for granted now – I will never know what it is to marry, to have children, to not have to fight for breath each second of existing…
I knew he was innocent, but no one wanted to hear it. There was no trial for me, no charges or hearing or anything of the sort – you know, time- consuming, dull, legal. I was simply deposited "for safekeeping" in Azkaban. That was fifteen years ago.
I don't know why this happened to me, even though I've thought about it endlessly since the moment I felt the Dementors' tremendous chill around me. Did they think I was affiliated with Sirius and the Dark Lord? Never. Sirius was not, and I was not. Would I have turned dark to get Sirius out of prison? How could I have done such a horrible thing, ever? Compromise the lives of myself and those I love to free one person – sacrifice everyone for only one person? Never.
I think they just didn't want to deal with me. They just wanted to forget me.
I never knew what happened. Was Sirius really dark, somehow, without me knowing it? Could he have been? Did he live, die, escape? I don't even know what happened to You-Know-Who. Fifteen years is a long time, and had he risen to power, I suppose he would have freed all of Azkaban, but I don't know, I just don't know anything.
Days and nights are dark, full of darkness, the only thing I know now is the dark. Sometimes I struggle to remember the names of my old friends, my family, poor Sirius. Sometimes I will awake to what I think is the sound of inmates screaming – some of those times, it's really me, screaming. On days that aren't so bad, I can curl into the darkest corner and recall, just faintly, the feel of his arms around me dancing at the Potters' wedding…
Sometimes I forget. And what frightens me even more than when the Dementors pass by is that eventually I will forget everything. Forever.
Even here in the dimmest, most heart-rendingly lost corners of Azkaban, most people have names. Not me.
I had a name once. What's more, I had people who loved me, who knew my name, who called me by it and told me their names. People I loved. They were a part of me once.
Now I don't have a name. As far as the Ministry of Magic is concerned, I never existed. All those who knew me are dead or well-paid to keep their mouths shut, anyway. Or maybe they simply forgot.
I have had far too much time to debate this subject with myself, think of it again and again, turn it over in the pits of my mind. Fifteen years in Azkaban leaves plenty of time to think, if you're still sane, of course. But I think, I think this every day of my existence, my struggle to keep breathing in this corner of a cell, how could everyone just forget I existed? I lived. I breathed. I loved. Yet I have managed to leave no mark on the world I came from. Just as I will leave no mark here when I go.
My name does not matter – were I to tell it to you, it would have no meaning, you would find no record of it anywhere else. Perhaps you would forget it like all the rest. Let me identify myself in a simpler, less dangerous manner than a name: I loved Sirius Black.
I was young. No – we were young. All of us. Our teachers at Hogwarts said we were thick as thieves, that's how they always described us. But the stories always tell of James and Sirius and Lupin and Peter, never of the rest of us – me or Lily or the others. But that doesn't really matter, not anymore, no one really cares. Specialists from the Ministry have analyzed "dangerous trends" in yesterday's youth over and over, studying the lives of those who turned dark, key players in the last days of He-Who-Must-Not- Be-Named's regime. They've been over and over the facts of the Potter-Black- Lupin-Pettigrew files. Why bother with the secondary players?
Oh, those were wonderful days, back then – before the darkness descended upon the unsuspecting wizarding world, before the days when you trusted no one and no one trusted you either. We were young, we were all happy, we never thought we'd end up dead or in Azkaban. All of us, thinking everyone in our little group of friends was so far from turning dark and were all banded together in fighting the Dark Lord. No one ever suspected the truth about Lupin's monthly illnesses, or Pettigrew's curious affinity with rats and ratting others out.
For a time, everything was right, and we were sure the darkness would never reach our happy little games. James and Lily were head boy and girl, Remus was getting better and even getting a few dates, Peter was…well, he was Peter, and he was always strange. And I had Sirius. He was always into some kind of slight trouble, but he was lovable. So lovable.
My life literally ended when he was convicted and imprisoned in Azkaban.
Literally. No one suspected a thing, no one. Not even me.
…I remember…not too long before it all, we danced at Lily and James's wedding – and he held me, and I was so stupid. Stupid enough to think that maybe one day he would marry me. When I think that I took such simple things for granted now – I will never know what it is to marry, to have children, to not have to fight for breath each second of existing…
I knew he was innocent, but no one wanted to hear it. There was no trial for me, no charges or hearing or anything of the sort – you know, time- consuming, dull, legal. I was simply deposited "for safekeeping" in Azkaban. That was fifteen years ago.
I don't know why this happened to me, even though I've thought about it endlessly since the moment I felt the Dementors' tremendous chill around me. Did they think I was affiliated with Sirius and the Dark Lord? Never. Sirius was not, and I was not. Would I have turned dark to get Sirius out of prison? How could I have done such a horrible thing, ever? Compromise the lives of myself and those I love to free one person – sacrifice everyone for only one person? Never.
I think they just didn't want to deal with me. They just wanted to forget me.
I never knew what happened. Was Sirius really dark, somehow, without me knowing it? Could he have been? Did he live, die, escape? I don't even know what happened to You-Know-Who. Fifteen years is a long time, and had he risen to power, I suppose he would have freed all of Azkaban, but I don't know, I just don't know anything.
Days and nights are dark, full of darkness, the only thing I know now is the dark. Sometimes I struggle to remember the names of my old friends, my family, poor Sirius. Sometimes I will awake to what I think is the sound of inmates screaming – some of those times, it's really me, screaming. On days that aren't so bad, I can curl into the darkest corner and recall, just faintly, the feel of his arms around me dancing at the Potters' wedding…
Sometimes I forget. And what frightens me even more than when the Dementors pass by is that eventually I will forget everything. Forever.