Hello, lovelies! I know I have been missing in action for quite some time now. I don't know if being a newlywed counts as a good excuse or not. ;-) Either way, I am trying to get back into writing, and this short piece was my Muse's attempt to get back into the groove. There are supposed to be stark similiarities between the first section and the second- it might seem repetitive, but I thought that got my point across best. Hope you like it! Please leave a review or PM me if you have a plot bunny you'd like me to try out. Otherwise, I am planning on completing several stories that have been on hiatus for these past few months. Enjoy! -K
Sirius Black sat in the corner of his cell, shivering against the cold wind coming off of the water. The wizard's prison of Azkaban was set on an island far out to sea to prevent any of its inmates from escaping. The fortress was built of solid stone, and water dripped continuously down the walls. It was a miserable place, filled with desolate prisoners.
The prison was guarded by dementors- tall, hooded figures that were incapable of understanding human emotions. Their presence seemed to drain the very warmth out of the air. Sirius was sure he would never be warm again. The dementors thrived on the happy memories of the inmates, sucking them down like energy and leaving the prisoners with only their worst thoughts. Many went mad within a few months of setting foot on the island. Only Sirius resisted. It was a wonder that he managed to fight at all- every night, as he sank slowly into the tormented unconsciousness that passed for sleep in that awful place, he saw that horrible scene at the Potters' replayed in his mind's eye. He felt again the searing fear, shock, and pain that had consumed him when he had Apparated to the front gate, the guilt that sat like a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. Only his hatred- the intense, soul-crushing hatred that made him grind his teeth until his eyes watered and his blood boiled in his veins- only his pure, absolute hatred of the rat provided him with the strength to resist the dementors' advances. Some days he thought that he would surely bash his brains out against the stone wall out of sheer frustration and agony. But he managed to bite his lip and hold on. For Harry's sake. For James' sake.
Fifteen years later, he sits in the corner of his room at Grimmauld Place, shivering against the cold evil that permeates the building and seeps into his bones. He hates this place. Too many memories, best forgotten and buried deep beneath the misty fog of time. It is a miserable place, filled with Dark artifacts and the lingering sparks of long-ago spells. It reminds him of his family, if that was what they could be called- parents, who had no time or patience for him, and a brother, whose obsession with the Dark Arts bordered on the obsessive. Only his love- the intense, heart-rending love for the godson whom he had been unable to protect for all these years- only his loyal, fatherly love for James' boy provided him with the strength to resist the depression that settled over him like a heavy wool blanket. Some days he thought about trying to slip out, disguised as Padfoot, perhaps, just to sniff the fresh air and romp in the fragrant, sun-warmed grass. Dumbledore and Remus reminded him time and time again that such an action would be foolhardy at best, suicidal at worst. But it wasn't their advice that kept him locked up in that grimy, windowless room. He did it for Harry's sake. Always for Harry.