October 31st 1981
The ocean was large, ominous, and thrashing, pulled by the very moon that cursed his best friend…Well, he used to be his best friend. They were all four in very different places now, James was dead, Remus was trying to survive, and Peter was a traitor, and he, Sirius Black was the only one that knew. He recalled how the street looked with the dust clearing from the explosion as twelve dead muggles lay at his feet: the perfect framing. He honestly had to applaud Peter for that tidbit, and very bitterly so… How dare he?
He could hear the waves braking against the walls of Azkaban as he sat in his darkened cell, hands over his face, trying to gather everything together in his mind that just kept slipping away as warm tears oozed through his fingers. James and Lily were dead and Remus… Peter was such a bastard. And Sirius Black swore, right then, that he was going to kill him if it was the last thing he would ever do, but considering where he was, he didn't seem to have very many options.
This was going to have to be something he thought out very carefully.
The dementors liked his tears, it seemed. Their rattling breaths seeming to be the only sounds he would hear for the next hour until they moved to the outside of an adjacent cell to feed off of another for a while. He shivered, his thin clothes making him think that perhaps he would be warmer without them, the cold clinging to the fabric that never seemed to warm against his body.
His thoughts then drifted to Harry. He smiled, remembering Lily's recount of the little boy on his first broomstick ride. It was such a wonderful day; she'd said Harry was a natural, just like James. He was so proud to be Harry's godfather. A sudden epiphany dawned on him then… Harry had no one, no one except those vile Dursley's on Lily's side. But that was all he knew.
He remembered the letter he'd gotten from Lily only a few weeks before:
Dear Padfoot,
Thank you, thank you, for Harry's birthday present! It was his favorite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself, I'm enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet above the ground but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course, James thought it was so funny, says he's going to be a great Quidditch player, but we had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don't take our eyes off him when he gets going.
We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda, who has always been so sweet to us and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn't come, but the Order's got to come first, and Harry's not old enough to know it's his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tried not to show it but I can tell – also, Dumbledore's still got his invisibility cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend, I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the news about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard.
Bathilda drops in most days, she's a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore, I'm not sure he'd be pleased if he knew! I don't know how much to believe, actually, because it seems incredible that Dumbledore could ever have been friends with Gellert Grindelwald. I think her mind's going, personally!
Lots of love,
Lily
The thoughts of the letter caused him to look out the window to the pale sliver of moon that hung in the sky, clouds ghosting across its pale face. He had half a mind that there weren't storm clouds over Azkaban at all, but just dementors, soaring through the sky.
The ghost of a smile flitted across his features as he saw little flecks of multi-colored lights in the sky: fireworks. The Dark Lord had fallen once again, and would hopefully never return, and all throughout the wizarding world they were toasting The Boy Who Lived. Sirius realized that his tears had begun to fade, long past dry, wishing with every part of him that he could join in on the celebrations… Wishing he honestly had it in him. Wasn't anyone else in the world mourning the Potter's like he was? Maybe everyone else was happy in their snug little homes now that the criminal was apprehended. All was well. He could see the title in his mind, Best Man, Turned Killer.
His hair fell into his eyes with that same casual elegance as it always had, but he didn't pay it any mind now. All the things he had done when he was young, he realized, were now quite beyond stupid. He and James were popular in school they were The Marauders illegal animagi who roamed the grounds of Hogwarts every full moon with their best friend Remus who just so happened to be a werewolf.
"Oh Remus, I'm sorry." He whispered into the darkness, the beams of the small sliver of moon seeming to cut through it, but the moment he had with himself didn't last long as another dementor glided past his cell again and stopped, the shadowed, faceless being watching him from where he stood on the other side of those cold iron bars.
The night seemed to drag on for an eternity as sleep never came to him until sunrise, a small tin pan with a piece of bread and a small cup of water were magiced through the bars, onto the floor for him to take. He hurried before the rats got to his bread, wolfing it down. That was his first mistake, he learned very quickly that those slices of bread and glasses of water were a once-a-day luxury, and he was given nothing more, nothing less. With his growling stomach somewhat sated, the water causing the bread to spread within his stomach, making him feel fuller than he really was, he lied down on his stiff cot, no blankets, no pillows as he curled up in a ball and looked to the opposite wall, his back to the dementors that were slowly but surely working away at him, his hopes seeming to be siphoned away by those greedy gaping mouths, leaving him empty and frozen inside.
But somewhere deep within, Sirius knew that he would be able to find hope despite the way these ruthless beings fed on every single emotion, especially sadness. Once a few days passed, he realized that his mourning for Lily and James was one that was short lived as he fell in step with the rest of the inmates doing daily chores. They scrubbed the floors with sponges and buckets, the muggle way. They did laundry, also the muggle way, by hand in the toilets with soap and other things. Many of the Dark Lord's followers hated this sort of thing, but Sirius knew what he had to do, and didn't complain. That's what he figured was the best way to go, say nothing do nothing, and he would get by unscathed.
He'd also been getting Daily Prophet's in the mornings, reading the Potter's obituary with dry eyes, which felt genuinely strange as he looked at the moving photograph that had been taken at their wedding, either of his arms around Lily and James, smiling handsomely to the camera as Lily smiled shyly and James waved.
He was looking for some sort of lead, something that would show him that Pettigrew really had framed him, but day after day he waited, and day after day, it never came. The news he was looking for wouldn't come to him for the next twelve years, but somehow, he still had a small hope, (at least he thought it was), as he looked out that small barred window one night. But as he fell asleep, he clutched the portrait of him and his best friends to his chest as though that singular piece of paper was his entire heart.
