For an innocent wizard, Sirius Black was staying in Azkaban for an unbelievably long time. He wasn't sure when exactly his guards had stopped considering him a legitimate feeding source. It might have started a little more than a year after his arrival. In addition, his prison conditions had been slowly improving ever since.
Well, if he considered it an improvement that the witch screaming in the cell next to his own had been moved to the far side of the corridor, and her cell was now inhabited by a wizard quietly mumbling about the gold hoard he had lost.
On the other side, the cell between Fenrir Greyback and himself was left empty and locked as a security measure. It was considered dangerous to place a human near a werewolf with just one wall between them. Or maybe the guards simply didn't want anyone else to terrorize their captives. That was their own special privilege.
Privilege, but not necessarily their goal. Of what he had seen in the past twelve years, Sirius Black could tell most of them preferred to provide their charges a sense of relative security and a meaningless and symbolic privacy. For example, only one specific dementor would roam the prison with his hood dropped back: Sirius could see an enigmatic weathering on the side of his forehead, a little above where the right eye would have been on a living creature.
He was never sure whether dementors counted as "live" or not. Their official classification was "non-being", a title which referred to ghosts and the like, but he had never heard of anyone turning into a dementor, or any of his guards referring to an event that had happened to them in an earlier stage of existence. They didn't appear to have a past at all.
Sirius sat back, patiently waiting for his lunch. It wasn't usually much of a culinary pleasure; only an event in the monotony of passing hours. Most inmates dreaded it, because dementors tended to come into the cells to deliver food instead of just sliding it in through the gap. Unlike the criminals, Sirius was looking forward to lunchtime. Monotony wasn't better than the guards. He turned into his dog form and tried to sniff at the icy currents. Then, he waited. Waited until he could pick up the scent of the oily soup and the… was that chicken? Wonderful choice of dishes that only taste good when served steaming hot.
He rose back to human form, and sat down on the bed. He tried to focus on the goal he had recently set for himself: to try and look at the dementors the way he had (previously, wrongly) expected Hagrid to do. He took a deep breath, and re-centered his focus on the disappointment he'd felt when the half-giant had called the guards foul and hideous.
For certain, Hagrid had a horribly low sense of danger, and an incredibly high affinity to anything that would try to eat him. Once the Marauders had come across the large gamekeeper on a moonlit night, and he had yelled 'Puppy!' when he had spotted poor, unsuspecting Moony.
'Puppy.' The three animagi had teased Remus with it for the rest of the school year.
The cheery memory (or at least, the joy out of it) vanished as the guard entered with his lunch. Just as the animagus had expected from the smells, it was bouillon and…. It took him time to recognize the main dish. Chicken tamales. Of course, the entire meal was ice-cold, the exact opposite of what he once had when the Black family had visited a famous Inca magician. And instead of that creep's wide smiling face, the dementor only had a shadowy hood.
Of course, this time Sirius didn't have to suspect any nasty ingredients, either.
He steadied himself. He looked at the bulky guard, and instead of quivering in the corner until the dark one had placed the tray on the small table, he gathered all his strength, and (careful not to touch those grayish, slimy-looking hands) took the tray from the creature. "Thank you, I'll manage from here," he offered.
The hooded one seemed puzzled, if only for a moment. Sirius realized too late that fighting back in this way might come across as an insult, which he really didn't mean. But, so far, he wasn't being forced to recall the night when he had found James and Lily dead because of his own stupidity. In dementor terms, this probably meant that the guard was more amused than angry. Sirius quickly backed away, giving the dementor the space he was obviously accustomed to. He also looked aside, a gesture akin to breaking eye contact. The blind creature would never understand, but in dog terms, it said 'I didn't mean to challenge you'.
To his surprise, the dark thing also turned his hooded head away in a similar manner. Sirius waited with the relieved sigh until the cell door was safely locked from the outside again.
Well, he had to reconsider the abilities of both sides before he could go on with that crazy 'being more like Hagrid than Hagrid himself' plan. For one, he apparently didn't yet have the courage to speak to his guard like he had planned. Then, that dementor had reacted to the non-verbal communication which he, in theory, shouldn't have been able to perceive at all. It was awkward.
He sat down, and held the soup plate between his hands. He was never particularly skilled with wandless charms, although he had twelve years of practice. The soup had a rigid layer of ice under its congealed fat, which barely began to thaw in five minutes. It took almost half an hour to warm the broth to edible level, but then, he had plenty of time. He sternly reminded himself that other wizards here got it worse than him.
An hour later the same bulky guard came back to pick up the empty dishes. In the meantime, he must have been waiting just outside the cell door. While the prisoner was having his lunch, the dementor got his meal as well: any simple joy the captive might have found in his present life.
Couldn't have been much of a feast, the wizard mused. He found no joy in the realization.
Then, everything was due to be boring until dinner. Except for Skipps' arrival.
As a high-security prisoner, Sirius Black had always had at least one guard right in front of his door. This role was often given to the bulky one who had brought the meal. The dementor who collected the empty plates from the cell-keepers was always the same for the past eight years, the one with the crooky hands and an affinity for juggling. He would balance plates on their edges in his palm, with the tray atop, and float along the corridor without the slightest shade of taking his existence too seriously. He was thin, but not skeletal like the most. He moved much faster than the others, and as far as Sirius could tell from his cell, he had rather good reflexes. Like now, he had swept the plates back into a neatly arranged pile when he had spotted Chesire coming.
Chesire was some sort of commander among the prison guards. On the rare occasions when someone visited this accursed place on their own will (usually Ministry officials and a few aurors) it was always Chesire who guided them around, as if he owned the place. Those times, he was careful to put his hood on. With only the prisoners to see him, however, the commander often floated around with his head completely naked. One could see the greenish grey skin, the weathering on his forehead, and the two dark eye-sockets and parchment-thin pale skin covering them. The corners of his open mouth curled into a skull-like wide smile, and as he breathed in, even the lower-ranking dementors seemed to shiver a little.
Skipps left in one direction, perhaps to get the dishes apparated from Azkaban so that they would be sent back again with the dinner. Chesire went the other way, perhaps to check on the preliminary detention area. The bulky guard stayed motionless at his post.
Sirius took one last deep breath, reassuring himself. No turning back, now.
"It must be boring out there," he started, when Chesire was out of sight. "I guess your orders are to stay by this door, but if they didn't specify which side you must be on… It would be nice to have some company."
There, he said it. He just told a full-power dementor that his company was preferable to complete loneliness. Whatever would happen now, it would be a change from the years-long boredom. A small victory.
The dementor turned around, as if in disbelief.
"I want you to come in. I mean it," Sirius insisted, although much more quietly, and with only a shade of his original determination. He could hear his arteries pulse in his neck as the lock opened. He was sweating ice when it was locked again.
The bulky dementor was about eleven feet high, but appeared even taller because of the extra two feet between him and the floor. His breath was like piercing arctic wind, against which the wizard had no protection. Yet, there was something strange in his aura: a reserved strength. As he moved closer, Sirius sensed the prominent self-control and a measure of innocent curiosity. And there was more, a trace of something the wizard had not witnessed in over a decade: respect. The dementor made it clear that he was only staying in the cell as long as the captive's invitation stood. Otherwise, he wouldn't go farther than the other side of the door, of course. He would only give the prisoner the personal space that was rightfully his. Sirius was amazed by the amount of self-control this took from a creature who could easily tear his soul out through his mouth, if he wanted to.
"You don't treat me as free game," he quietly pointed out. "That I have noticed long ago. You're trying not to do me any further harm. You're kinder to me than my so-called true friends have been. Those who're alive, anyway."
The dementor only breathed quietly. Of course, it wasn't his fault that Sirius had failed so much when picking his friends. The seemingly harmless wimpy boy they had been protecting and teaching, who'd betrayed them all to the Dark Lord; the werewolf they had accompanied from moon to moon instead of abandoning him in disdain, who had never bothered to send as much as an encouraging word.
The dementor backed away, clearly aware of the wizard's bitter-dark thoughts. He didn't mean to trigger any of those.
"Not your fault that my life got screwed up. It always was. And all my life, I've been trying to make the best of it anyway. Guess what? Under the circumstances, I still think I've managed relatively well!"
Of the entire Slytherin family, he was the only one who'd made it to Gryffindor. He'd become an animagus based on knowledge he and James had gathered from their families' bookshelves. Despite his bigoted goldblood upbringing, he'd got the best out of the muggle world for himself, too. He'd survived the Great Wizarding War. More, he lived to see Hagrid fly away on his motorbike with his baby godson after the defeat the most powerful dark magi of the decade. And now he was talking about this to a guard in a place where everyone was due to lose their mind in a matter of weeks.
Something reminiscent of warmth ran through his spine. Pride and reassurance. Maybe the dementor was more interested in keeping him talking than sucking those feelings immediately away. If anything, he looked troubled.
Sirius continued, "I alone managed to steer away from the despicable ways of every other Black. And, since by whatever fates I was destined to end up here anyway, I'd rather have this, than be a bloody-handed mass murderer. Don't you think?"
The creature now seemed relaxed in the cell where he had been invited to. There was no change in his posture. Dementors were blind and thus devoid of body-language, Sirius accepted – but then, hadn't this one turned away at lunch? He didn't give off a sound, either. He seemed a comfortable listener, for now. Maybe enjoying the moment of thanks.
"You're able to look into the essence of a wizard, aren't you? And in my case, you have done that. Unlike my own kin, you do value my innocence, or else you wouldn't spare me." By now, Sirius also felt more reassured. Words were coming fluently as his thoughts and feelings had cleared. The creature still didn't move, but his presence was not offensive. Sirius couldn't tell which was the action and which the reaction. Dementors didn't like to be found repulsive, perhaps that was why they were fully cloaked all the time. Now, being welcome in here, this bulky one seemed to ease into the unexpected acceptance. It showed in his quiet breathing, and was palpable in his more reassuring aura.
Sirius looked up at the familiar hood, and wondered if his opinion would change if he saw what that dark tissue was hiding. But so far, the cloak covered all of the bulky guard's personal substance, and it was due to remain so in the foreseeable future. Sirius was sure that the strong one would never attack him.
" I'm aware it might sound odd, but I'm grateful."
The moment he said the word, he felt something warm and cozy, connecting him to his listener. It was true gratitude, invisible, undoubtable, and precious. A pleasant wind touched his skin. At first he thought his own gratitude had bounced off the dementor: maybe the emotion was too densely positive, too intense and impenetrable, like a patronus. For a moment Sirius worried if he had harmed his guard. But soon he realized that quite the opposite had happened: the creature accepted and reciprocated the feeling.
Suddenly, he was aware of his surroundings in a manner he had never been before. For the lack of a better word, he remembered. He found himself familiar with every wall and corridor in the prison area, he could tell who was in which cell and what memories they were re-experiencing. As he got a glimpse of their pasts, their muttered half-words and whispered threats began to make sense.
"I never expected you could…"
The dementor, still standing tall where he had been, was radiating awe, and Sirius could tell that his respect was not new. Thinking back, there had been signs of it for years, only, the wizard had been blind to them. That respect was the strange security he had felt in the icy aura, and the reassurance that his innocence truly mattered.
The sensation slowly faded into a memory that would stay with him. He got a peek into the essence of the dementor, just like the creature had been looking into him whenever he wanted. The warm air of gratitude cooled down, and the intense awareness calmed to knowledge.
"Thank you," Sirius managed.
The dementor was apparently overwhelmed and caught in his own similar shocking surprise. He retreated from the cell and hurried down the corridor. Sirius took one last glimpse at the cell door, and, now unsteady and shivering, he stumbled back to his bed.
Obviously, both of them needed some time to think this through. But he had no doubt this dementor would return to him soon, just as he didn't doubt he would let the creature into the cell again. But for now, he needed a clear mind. Just like his guard.
Until the bulky one returned, another dementor took his position outside the cell. This one was skeletal, cold like the walls, and just as familiar. Sirius had heard him called Vaqqu when the biennial supervision team had visited. He was in charge of the high-security area: an old and experienced specimen. Sirius wondered if he should give him a try.
This time, he didn't speak. Magic required words; feelings did not. Besides, talking to his own guard felt natural and somewhat obvious to him. Vaqqu clearly demanded a distance.
And respect.
As he considered the details of his experience with his keeper, Sirius finally concluded that the difference was in the direction of his feelings, not their nature. Few wizards, if any, had ever felt something positive towards a dementor. That had to be the explanation to what had happened.
Toward Vaqqu, he had little reason to be thankful about. Maybe that the senior dementor was managing the worst criminals here, so that the wizard's few remaining loved ones were safe. But even that impression had been a derivate of his deference towards the ancient one. He decided to give his unspoken respect a try, and focused.
Vaqqu's mind opened to him, quiet and dark, like the entrance of a haunted fortress. The dementor was in complete control of what he would share, and what he'd keep hidden. But in their first moments of contact, Vaqqu revealed not only that he was aware of what had happened between the usual keeper and Sirius, but that he approved of it, and he was expecting this connection to grow stronger, now that they knew how it worked.
Meanwhile, just like the previous dementor Sirius had talked to, this one did not move an inch. He was levitating quietly, the scarce light shimmering on his hood's enigmatic frostwork. His eye-less face was turned towards a pillar to which inmates would be chained during the annual cell-cleaning. His current attitude reminded Sirius of one of his Defense Against Dark Arts teachers, who refused to give out any useful information and let his students learn from none other than their mistakes.
The assigned guard came back, and as the substitute was about to leave, Sirius caught a fragment of their dialogue. The frosty one welcomed his subordinate in a friendly manner, something the animagus had never before expected from a dementor. The bulky one, however, thought it was self-evident, and even mocked the blinking wizard for thinking otherwise.
The frosty-hooded dementor floated away as the assigned guard had returned to his position. Unlike the usual dread dementors tended to leave in their wake, Sirius was left with a clear message that he would be used, not as a feeding source, but as a figure in a grand game of wizard's (and dementor's) chess.
As his guard imported to him, nothing less should be expected from someone who had once had wizards like Owle Bullock under his control.
"That's rather reassuring," the animagus said, sarcastically. "It must be easier to you. You have friends here. I don't."
The dementor gave him an eyeless stare from under his hood.
"Or maybe I do," Sirius corrected himself. "Daire, if I caught your name properly?"
The bulky non-being nodded in a deceivingly human-like gesture. This time, it was his gratitude that reached the wizard: surprise that the animagus valued him enough to learn his name.
"You're the only one in the entire world who doesn't think of me with disdain. If your name I didn't remember, I don't know whose I should. Why don't you come in?"
Only when the dementor entered, did Sirius notice that he was holding something in one slimy, greyish hand. It was a half-pint white mug, with the logo of the International Confederation of Wizards. A few ink-blue lines were scattered around the white glaze. As Sirius took it from Daire, the random patterns reorganized themselves into rows of legible text.
"Experimental for use of heat and resistance testing under conditions extreme," the wizard attempted. "Couldn't they cast a better translation spell on it?" He read on. "Research property of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, 1758. Let me guess. The French wanted this tested under extreme circumstances, best known as: you. And now you're curious if it still works?"
In reply, the dementor placed an ice-covered jug of milk on the table, then detached the mug's handle at the upper connection point, and bent it upwards. The handle kept looking like solid glazed porcelain, but it opened into a funnel. Sirius poured some milk through it. What seeped into the mug from the lower side of the handle, however, was not cold, nor white: it was pleasantly steaming, and cocoa-scented. Amazed, the wizard wrapped his fingers around the mug, enjoying the heat.
He took a disbelieving sip. The liquid was creamy, tasty, reassuring. Each gulp warmed his lips, his tongue, his throat, his soul.
"Hm. I'm not sure I've ever drank hot chocolate this good before!"
Or maybe he just couldn't remember, because he was currently among dementors, who tended to make the best memories fade. But at the moment, he cared little about that. He refilled the mug (there was still plenty of milk available) and smiled over the foamy, creamy drink.
"Cheers, Daire."
Then he downed its contents in one go.