It was almost cruel, really, Sirius reflected as he drew his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around them. One would think that the builders of Azkaban would have only put narrow slits in the wall for windows. Just to make the atmosphere even more dark and airless. Instead, the window was wide enough for him to see the sky. He could even see the moon at night.
It should make him happy, those glimpses of blue sky or pearl-bright moon. Even the low grey clouds that usually comprised the view weren't necessarily the end of of the world. Perhaps the builders of Azkaban had a deeper purpose in giving the inmates those tantalizing glimpses of freedom.
The view of the sky was one of the more depressing things in Sirius' current existence.
Tonight the moon was full. He could see it, the fat curve filling the window, luminescence blotting out the stars. Sirius hugged his knees a little tighter. Remus. He suffered terribly during his transition. Eleven years. One hundred thirty-two months. One hundred thirty-two full moons. One hundred thirty-two solitary transformations. He sometimes wished he hadn't talked James out of using him as their Secret-Keeper. If he hadn't, James and Lily might be alive right now. Sirius shook his head. He couldn't think about that. Well, I could, he thought. The fewer happy memories he had, the better, but the roiling pain it brought threatened to choke him.
Sirius allowed his thoughts to drift. James, his eyes twinkling with infectious earnestness as he proposed they become Animagi, so Remus didn't have to suffer the full moon alone. The satiated glow on his face after spending a Saturday evening with Lily in an empty classroom. Lily's cautious words to support an hours-old Harry's head when she hesitantly shifted the sleeping baby to his godfather's arms. Lily laughing with delight as Harry took his first unsteady and unassisted steps. Thinking of James and Lily inevitably led him to the memory of their twin graves, side-by-side in the churchyard. James and Lily, of course, turned his mind to Harry. He wondered if Lily's bitch of a sister had taken in Harry, like Dumbledore intended. He hoped not. Sirius hoped someone like Molly Weasley had opened their home and heart to Harry. He must be twelve years old by now, Sirius mused. Second year at Hogwarts. I hope he plays Quidditch. Sirius scowled slightly. He'd better be in Gryffindor. Be a right shame if he ended up in Hufflepuff. Or worse, Slytherin.
Sirius unfolded himself and began to pace slowly around the cramped confines of his cell. He shouldn't have had to worry about Harry's whereabouts. He should be the one taking care of his godson. With a pang, Sirius pictured a miniature version of James, with his untidy black and Lily's green eyes. They would have lived in the country, in a cottage, with lots of room to breathe and be a proper family.
Sirius let himself imagine what might have been. Even though it was painful, he created scenarios in his mind. What if… They weren't particularly distressing or wrenching, but sad enough to keep the Dementors at bay. None of the images were real, and didn't have quite the emotional impact as his real memories did. Harry learning to talk. Learning to ride a proper broom. Playing with Padfoot. Sitting at a scrubbed wooden table in a warm, bright kitchen, while Remus tutored the boy in Muggle subjects like reading or maths, then as he got older some of the basic spellwork Harry would do in his first year at school, using a stick for a wand. The Hogwarts letter. Going into Diagon Alley for Harry's things for Hogwarts. Going to King's Cross, darting through the barrier to Platform 9 ¾. Sirius sank on the edge of the bed, gripping the rough wool blanket between his fingers.
An unhinged cackle echoed off the stone walls and intruded into his thoughts. Sirius glanced upward, with only a small hitch of his shoulder to betray his irritation. They'd confined him to a cell in the same area as Voldemort's supporters. Rather stupid, really, of the Ministry to keep them all relatively close together.
The first time he'd heard that demented laugh in Azkaban, it had so violently startled Sirius out of his pathetic reverie that he'd glanced wildly around his cell. That Bellatrix was insane had been the worst kept secret in the Black family. His aunt and uncle had quickly married her off as soon as she finished school to Rodolphus Lestrange, who wasn't exactly known for his mental stability himself, so she could be someone else's problem.
Sirius wondered tartly if Bellatrix had managed to keep her wits, such as they were, about her. The fact he could still think clearly was deeply rooted in his despair: he hadn't killed Peter Pettigrew. Rotting in Azkaban sent him into spirals of unrelenting depression. Dementors abhorred depression and despondency. There were days Sirius begged for death, just to end this miserable existence. But alas, Sirius' wishes had rarely come true.
