This short is for the Slytherin House, prompt being Guilt - 1,331 words
The terrible north wind was whipping through the Azkaban, bypassing every protection the inhabitants and their jailers had, making the already dreary, Dementor induced atmosphere seem even more terrible. Everyone who was still even slightly sane huddled in the warmest part of the room they were in, fruitlessly trying to fend off the chill.
Sirius couldn't find it in himself to care, though. It would serve him right if he froze to death for what he had done, for what he had failed to stop. Maybe, if he could get his body to be as cold as James' and Lily's were that night, he would feel some sort of closure, the lessening of that impossible, unbearable guilt that pressured his heart with the weight he imagined the sky had as it rested on the back of Atlas the sky-bearer.
There was no way to make that guilt go away, no way to move either forwards or backwards. He could only stand in place, suspended on the edge of oblivion, both hoping for and dreading the inevitable loss of control and the fall. In a way, that feeling mirrored Sirius' situation perfectly: stuck in the Azkaban, the limbo between life and death, with no chance of either getting out, or dying quickly. It made Sirius long for the adrenaline of the war, its spontaneity and quick decisions that made the difference between whether you'll survive this battle or not.
And the guilt swooped in again as he remembered how much he owed James, how many times he saved his life. Sirius wanted to curse that guilt, but he couldn't find it in himself to do so. If he tried to associate James with happiness, the Dementors would destroy the last memories of his best friend, so he stuffed the image of James' smile on his wedding day far back into his mind, letting the numbness and apathy dominate his mindscape again as the Dementor peeked into his cell for a brief check. He could afford no slipups if he wanted to stay alive - well, as alive as any permanent resident of the Azkaban can be. Exist was the more appropriate word for that.
Out of the blue, steps echoed through the halls, and Sirius lifted his head, straining his ears to figure out what was going on.
"-cklebolt, I'll be perfectly fine!" an irate, squeaky, nervous voice could be heard as it bounced off the stone walls.
"I'm sorry, Minister," deeper, more confident, Auror voice replied to the Minister, "I cannot let you in the highest-security without at least two Aurors as escorts. Dementors may yield to the Ministry's authority, but they may still attack if they feel a bit too hungry."
"Fine," Minister grumbled after a few seconds of quiet. "I want to see Black first."
Sirius blinked in surprise, then smiled, the long-unused facial muscles flaring in protest. So, he was finally getting a visit, and from the Minister of Magic himself?
Such an honor you have Padfoot, James' voice snarked from the back of his head, and Sirius shook his head a little. Who knows, maybe the Minister would bring him some sort of entertainment, something to distract his conscious mind from the guilt. He knew better than to hope for the erasure, though: the recurring nightmares of James' empty eyes and Lily's ice cold body made sure of that.
"Black," the nervous voice from before shook him out of his thoughts, and Sirius squinted to see a short, portly man twirling his bowler hat at the door of his cell. He was flanked by -
Sirius' eyes widened: Merlin, were those Shacklebolt and Dawlish? The two new kids Mad-Eye Moody told him about two months before he was thrown in Azkaban? They looked much older than the picture Sirius recalled, at least a decade or so older! Had really a decade passed since he was locked up in here?
Guilt swelled up again as Sirius wondered for the first time in too long: how old was Harry? He must've already entered Hogwarts. How was he? Was he more like James, mischievous and brash, or more like Lily, fierce-tempered and quiet?
"Minister," Sirius stood up and offered a pureblood bow, desperately pushing away all thoughts of his little godson. He could still feel the unnatural chill of the Dementors close by, and he'll take a dive from the Astronomy Tower before he'd let those monsters have his memories of Harry. "How are you?"
Sirius spotted an uneasy glance Dawlish and the Minister exchanged as well as Shacklebolt's minute frown, and smirked slightly. Merlin, they were so easy to rattle! What did they expect to see, a mad bundle of cackles and screams? He was a Black, but he was no Bella, thank you very much!
"Ve-very well," Minister blustered, spinning his bowler hat in nervousness. "You seem very calm, Black."
Sirius shrugged. "Nothing to do with my days but to be calm and stare into the walls. As a matter of fact, I'd like to do a crossword - wouldn't do to forget my own language."
It wasn't as much about the crossword as it was about the newspapers, but Sirius couldn't let them know about that. The Minister looked even more disturbed, Dawlish had a stance of the man millimeters away from hexing Sirius, and Shacklebolt's face was wiped clean of any expression.
Finally, the Minister rustled around his robes, pulling out the folded Prophet. Sirius would've wept in joy had he not had the audience.
"Here," the man pushed the paper through the bars. "It's two days old, but better something than anything, no?"
"Indeed, Minister," Sirius nodded fervently. "Have a nice day."
Minister snorted at the irony of Sirius' words, but left without any further comments, forcing Dawlish and Shacklebolt to follow him. The moment they left his eyesight Sirius tore into the paper, searching for the date. 26th of July, 1993. His estimation had been nearly spot on - not ten, but twelve years. Twelve years of this hellhole, and Sirius had to mentally congratulate himself for not completely losing his mind.
Then something caught his eye. A picture of a rat. Narrowing his eyes, Sirius looked carefully at the image of the family waving merrily from the photo, posing in the middle of the desert. Egypt, maybe? But what was more important, was a small rat perched on the shoulder of the youngest boy in the picture. A rat with a missing toe on the front paw.
Fires of anger ignited in Sirius's veins, the black dog howling at the back of his head to hunt and catch and kill their prey, the traitor, the betrayer, the reason we are in here and he outside! Sirius made no attempt to restrain Padfoot as he himself started growling. How dare that rat live outside, albeit in the guise of Wormtail, free of any guilt, while he was rotting in Azkaban, slowly consumed by the guilt for something he was only partially responsible for?
Sirius rushed through the article, trying to figure out the context. As he had initially guessed, the picture was taken in Egypt, and featured vast majority of the Weasley clan. Sirius skipped over the names of the elder children, more interested in the youngest boy's and his age.
… Ronald… returns to Hogwarts… Gryffindor...
Sirius swore out loud. Peter was in the striking distance of Harry! Sure, Voldemort had disappeared without a trace, but if there was even a slightest indication, Peter would take Harry straight to the madman, or even kill Sirius' godson himself!
It's not going to happen! I won't allow it! I'll kill him first!
Sirius went to sleep that night not feeling numbness, but icy inferno of total focus on the Wormtail. As he slowly sank into the restless sleep, feverishly whispering to himself He's in Hogwarts, he failed to register the missing weight on his heart; he had taken a step forward, and the guilt's weight disappeared from his back.