The walls close in on me sometimes. I can't entirely tell if this is in my head or perhaps some magical trick of the cell. I wouldn't put it past those sadists at the Ministry to make the cells shrink. But the worst part is not knowing if it's real or not.
When that happens, it's always at night. And I always search for the Moon. I have a small window; have I not told you that before? It's little more than a slit, but it carries out the stench of the cell and carries in the moonlight.
My cell faces south, south towards taunting land. I often wonder if I could swim it. Perhaps in animagus form? It seems like such an enormous breadth of frozen water, whipping as it does around the base of the tower. I spend quite a lot of my time wondering how to swim it.
South means one other thing as well: I can almost always see the Moon. Day or night, if it's up there I can find it. The length of the slit-like window helps as well, but the Moon is always there for me. Just like you were always there for me. Just like I was never there for you.
At night on the Full, its light illuminates my cell to near-daylight brilliance. I can see into the corners, into the places I try not to look, not even in the light of day, for the Sun lights my cell as well.
On the wall I keep a calendar. The Minister comes by sometimes, and he said it clearly showed I was mad since I only had one hundred and seventeen marks on it. "Black," he said, "You've been here nearly ten years. Your calendar's a bit off."
It's not off; it marks the Fulls. That makes one hundred and twenty four Full Moons I have missed since I've known you were a werewolf, one hundred and seventeen in Azkaban. One hundred and seventeen ways you might have killed yourself by now. One hundred and seventeen nights you had no one to help you. One hundred and seventeen bloody mornings alone.
Or are you alone? You know I'm jealous, but even so I rather hope you've found someone. Someone sweeter to you than I ever was, but hopefully just as much fun. Someone you deserve. Someone who can keep you from being alone.
I think Bellatrix knows. She has the cell across from me. Sometimes she will taunt me. Mostly I ignore her. It's nearly a game for us; I think it keeps us sane. Once, as a child...
No one would have believed it, but Sirius was generally a quiet child. His mother was loud and rarely shut up, and the result was that he spoke mostly to himself in his head. He had imaginary friends. On this particular Monday evening he was sitting in a corner of the garden imagining that the leaf in front of him was a boat and that the puddle it drifted on was a large sea. He had only been able to do accidental magic, but it never stopped him from finding a stick and pointing it at things, begging the stick to help him. It never did. Today he likewise had a stick. He pointed it determinedly at the little floating leaf, but nothing happened. "You're a squib," a shrill voice announced behind him. "Your mum and dad will disown you and you'll probably end up in Azkaban for trying to steal someone else's magic." Bellatrix reached over young Sirius's shoulder and snatched his makeshift wand. "I am not a squib," he protested. "I've done accidental magic." Sirius had no response to this. But he knew he wasn't a squib. In his bones he knew it. "Give me back my wand!" he called. "This old stick?" Bellatrix cackled and then broke the twig easily between her two slender, pale hands. Sirius frowned. He knew it wasn't a real wand, but the garden was kept fairly immaculate by Kreacher and Pinky and he didn't relish trying to find another twig. "One day the ministry is going to snap your real wand like that!" Bellatrix continued. "For being a squib." He narrowed his eyes at her. "How can I have a wand if I'm a squib?" "Stop being a know-it-all," she answered. Though she was older than him by half a decade, logic and reasoning was clearly never going to be her strong suit. "Go away," Sirius pouted. She did as he requested, but not before plucking her black boot into the puddle in front of him, splashing mud all over his shirt and trousers. Sirius grumbled. He knew his mum would yell at him for getting dirty, and it would be no use to tell on Bellatrix. Everyone always believed her over him. Sirius stood and tried it brush off the mud. One day, he thought, I'll have real friends. And then I'll be a strong wizard and I can show Bellatrix. I'll show her...
I have not shown her after all, and here I am living across the hallway from her. I will be living out the rest of my days having to stare at my cousin's once-beautiful face and having to listen to her dissonant cackle. She was right, anyway. I'm not a squib, but the Ministry snapped my wand and sent me to Azkaban, just as she predicted.
When I was very young, my mum thought I might marry Bellatrix. It would keep the bloodline as pure as possible, she used to say. She never arranged such a marriage, but she certainly suggested it many times. Small wonder I fell in love with you, you who is in every way different to Bellatrix. You are gentle, clever, and intelligent. You are soft-spoken. You are introspective. And you would never break my wand.
What I mean to say- what this entire unsent missive was meant to say- is that I miss you. I miss you I miss you I miss you so much I feel I can smell the scent of you on the very walls of this cage. Do you miss me? Do you think I betrayed James and Lily?
Will you ever forgive me for the crime I did commit? The crime of believing you a traitor?