Azkaban, 1993
A slender hand holding a nail into this wall did carve
One last effort before the girl did starve
Sapped by emotion, hunger and cold
Her bones now rot beneath the mold
A sad last plea upon dead ears did fall
"Don't you understand, I have done nothing at all!"
She was buried without tears or care
And to our knowledge she still lies there
But good reader, be you jury or nay
Think what sent this girl to her sorry grave
Twelve raised hands and a biased judge
And the help of Bumbling Minister Fudge
And see you ever this simple epitaph
I know you will agree on my behalf
That so many people condemn and think no more
Must realize that what they do before
The hands are raised and life is lowered
Into a pit of hatred and cold
Where nobody ever lives to grow old
And they simply melt away
Once condemned that sorry day
And now evil comes to carry me awa
Sirius Black fingered the scratches in the wall, almost covered by a fresh coat of mortar. "How long did it take you?" he asked the writing. "How long did that girl know she was going to die in here?" He answered himself: "Too long."
"Long," sighed an echo.
"How long? Weeks? Months? Years?" Sirius yelled. "This is hell! It's like dying in hell then going back for a second helping!"
The Dementor stared at him. Sirius tried to glare back, but the horror of a Dementor's gaze turned him away. Furious, he slammed a fist into the stones. "I won't die! I won't!"
Another look at the poem, then a snarl as Sirius the dog sprung at the bars. Too narrow! Sirius the man sprawled on the floor. "Tomorrow then. Tomorrow I'll try again." The Dementor just stared. "You bastard son of a bull and a demon! I've spent more years here than you will ever know, for I will kill you when I leave. Tomorrow, to be precise."
The Dementor simply stared.
"And I won't die here. I may be going to hell, but I'm not going to die there."