"Yet I met Black on my last inspection of Azkaban. You know, most of the prisoners in there sit muttering to themselves in the dark, there's no sense to them… But I was shocked at how normal Black seemed. He spoke quite normally to me. It was unnerving. You'd have thought he was merely bored - asked if I had finished with my newspaper, cool as you please, said he missed doing the crossword. - Cornelius Fudge (Prisoner of Azkaban, pp155)

Cornelius Fudge squints his eyes against the burning midday sun. It's hot on the boat. His skin is sticky and clammy under a heavy woollen coat, but he doesn't dare remove it. He clings to the lapels, hugs it tighter around his shoulders, and tries to peer across the empty sea -back towards the shore. If he stares hard enough, he can almost fool himself into thinking he can see the line where the sky bleeds into the ocean.

"We're almost there now, Minister."

Cornelius nods at the captain and takes a breath in. He turns the newspaper over in his hands. He hasn't even bothered to open it; he just brought it to have something normal to hold onto. Something safe, something normal, something to remind him of home.

He hates this job. He has always hated it. He tries to delegate the inspections where he can (though few ever volunteer). Once a year, that's all he will permit himself to do. Once a year to check the wards and the walls. Once a year to descend to hell and crawl back out again.

Cornelius twists his watch restlessly on his wrist. He always chooses midday for this venture. The warmest part of the day, the brightest, the loudest. As though the sun, towering from its highest point, will make the descent more bearable.

It never does.

Cornelius can feel when they've crossed the boundary. His stomach fills with heavy lead and the air turns to ash in on his tongue. It's as though someone has sucked the breath from his lungs; the steady rise and fall of the ocean coming to a stop as the sea too holds its breath. The sun still burns his eyes, but there's no heat from it. They have truly sailed off the edge of the map.

Cornelius finally turns to face the black stain of Azkaban on the empty blue ocean. It's a shadow on a sun-filled sky, stretching upwards, inhaling the light and warmth from the air like a hungry abyss. Cornelius can almost hear it laughing.

The boat bumps quietly into the shore. Cornelius curls into his heavy coat, shoving his hands into the pockets, but the cold has already begun to seep into his skin. He glances at the sun again and swallows. He begs for it to try harder, shine brighter. To try to bring any light or warmth to this wretched place. But the sun has been ignoring those requests for years, from people more desperate for it than him.

Reluctantly, and with whatever pitiful morale he can muster, he begins the long trudge towards the gaping mouth of the prison. It has no bars or doors or teeth; it doesn't need them.

The door to Azkaban stands open, almost welcoming.

Cornelius shoves the newspaper under his arm, close to his chest. He ducks as they enter the prison (although he has no need to), and pulls his bowler hat more firmly to his head. He keeps his head bowed, his shoulders hunched, and tries to steer clear of the things that move in the shadows.

"Welcome, Minister."

"Good evening, Mr McDonald. All's well, I hope?"

"Aye. Shall we get started?"

McDonald is young; they tend to fare better when they're young. Less memories to work with, less connections to people, less to lose. Still, even the guards can only bear two weeks at a time before they too have to escape to the safety of the mainland.

McDonald is on day twelve, he tells the minister as they walk. It's his third shift at the prison.

"Easy money really, it's not like anyone's going anywhere."

Cornelius smiles politely at the joke, although neither can muster the joy to laugh at it. McDonald's eyes are clouded, there's an unpleasant sheen to his skin, and his hand grips too tightly on a wand leading a flickering patronus. Neither of the men talk much more after that.

Cornelius nods at the reports he's shown, his eyes blindly scanning the ticks and check-marks in all the right boxes. They haven't had any new prisoners, not for years now. And the ones he needs to worry about (the one's he's dreading seeing), have been here so long they may as well be a part of the brickwork.

The walls are eight feet of thick, obsidian rock born from fire and lava. It's cold and smooth beneath hands as Cornelius runs his fingertips across the surface. It feels like ice, he thinks, and he supposes it is. A prison made of black glass, with jagged edges and splintered cracks that catches the skin of his uncalloused fingers. Cornelius watches blankly as his blood seeps into the stone.

"The wards and strengthening charms are holding up well?"

"Yes. We're only adding to them, every day."

"How many are there now?"

"... Thousands."

Cornelius nods, hands back the reports, and grabs the newspaper from under his arm. He twists it in his hands, crumpling the picture of the smiling family on the front page. The foyer is completely barren; just a carpet of slick, uneven flagstones, glinting under the few drops of midday sun that manages to fall in from the open roof above. The blue sky looks impossibly small and far away, framed within black walls.

Even despite the sun's pathetic attempt to light the prison, Cornelius is glad of it. He couldn't imagine what it feels like to be here at night. To succumb to the dark and cold with nothing but a few pinpricks of stars in an otherwise barren sky.

You would wish upon a thousand stars and never leave this place. At least the sun knows to burn you rather than mock you with hope.

"Shall we head up then?"

Cornelius swallows the dread that has started seeping up his throat but acquiesces. McDonald leads him to a shadowed corner, and Cornelius is proud of himself for not shuddering as the shadow looms from the wall and grasps his arm. The prison's lack of stairs is a safety feature, Cornelius reminds himself stubbornly as the Dementor melts from the shadows. McDonalds patronus flickers again and Cornelius can't help but cower into it. Cornelius whimpers as the bony arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him into a lover's gentle embrace. And together, they rise.

Distantly, he's surprised at how easy he was to lift. Surely the pit of dread in his stomach is weighing him down? But the Dementor lifts him as easily as a ragdoll, and Cornelius tries not to think of himself as something so flimsy.

The only way back down to the ground floor is to jump.

The top floor of Azkaban is haunted by shadows, both in the cells and out of them. Cornelius gravitates to the narrow crack in the wall and the sunlight that seeps through. The midday sun is still burning above them, burning a hole in an otherwise empty sky, but Cornelius can't feel the heat of it. Nor the wind on his face or the smell of the sea. The view from the window may as well be a painting; a fitting mockery of life and hope for such a dismal place. The golden watch on Cornelius' wrist glints in the light.

"We've barely been here twenty minutes… It feels like hours."

McDonald looks at him with pitying eyes.

"Time is cruel. It crawls when you're in a hurry to go and rushes by when you'd rather it linger." McDonald's smile is empty. "It feels like time stops altogether in here, just to keep you from leaving."

Cornelius swallows and slips the watch with his from his wrist, shoving it deep into a pocket of his overcoat. He'd rather not watch if time was just going to taunt him.

McDonald's flickering patronus brushes the edge of his knee. Cornelius takes a breath, closes his eyes and grips his hand tighter on the rolled, crumpled newspaper pressed close to his heart. He steps away from the window.

Had Cornelius not known exactly who occupied each of the cells on this floor, he may well have thought they were empty. Nothing stirs behind the bars, just small lumps of rags that curl further into the corners or stretch across the floor. There's a faint muttering from the cells, a tiny hum of noise that falls to an eerie silence as Cornelius and his guard set foot along the corridor.

They walk. Cornelius peers, checks, nods, and allows McDonald to tick each name on the list. The patronus weaves between their legs, and the Dementors float blithely away as they pass, hunting for darker shadows.

There are twenty-two Dementors on this floor; two for each cell. Cornelius knows this, but it doesn't stop him counting them. The action of doing so doesn't help him feel any safer either.

The final two Dementors slide past them as they walk to the end of the corridor. The patronus shimmers but holds its ground, casting a lifeless, pale light onto the dark stone. Cornelius peers to the last lump, confirms its presence, and nods to McDonald. There's a short scratching of quill on parchment and Cornelius closes his eyes, trying to steady himself with familiar sound and smells of mundane paperwork.

It's a rustle that first pulls Cornelius from his reverie, then a moan, then a howl. He spins to peer down the corridor but the dark is too thick. The howl starts again, it is joined by cries, then finally, it morphs into laughter. The air is drenched with cackles and crows, those awful, painful noises.

"It's because we moved the Dementors. I should go, try to—You'll be okay here?"

Cornelius doesn't miss McDonalds' glance towards the cell; he follows it with his own. The lump within has not moved. The bars are thick and heavy, and the wall behind him is solid and strong. Cornelius grips his newspaper again and tries to feel brave when his guard hurries off and melts into the darkness.

Cornelius focuses the window on the other side of the cell. It's just a narrow line in the stone yet even that is blocked by a thick, iron bar, slicing the midday light in two.

"Good morning, Minister. Enjoying your trip?"

Cornelius's eyes snap from the window to the lump. His eyes dance with lights as he tries to peer through the darkness to see the gaunt man hauling himself to his feet.

"It's— It's just gone midday."

There's a chuckle from the cell that almost stops Cornelius's heart. He remembers that laugh; it is burned and seared into his mind.

"I guess I should say 'good afternoon' then."

Sirius Black stands and rolls his shoulders before turning to look at Cornelius. His eyes are sharp, silver, and as bright as the burning sun behind him.

"It's easy to lose track of time. I have the month though. June, right? I keep an eye on the moon."

Cornelius stumbles backwards into the wall as Sirius approaches, moving through a shard of light cutting through a thin window. He's haggard and gaunt; a skeleton wrapped in rags. The clothes are falling off him, but he still manages to walk towards the front of the cell with an easy swagger. He leans through the bars, threading his arms through the metal and resting his head against them with a casual elegance.

"Have Ryan and Walter gone for lunch?"

"Who?"

Sirius waggles his fingers and groans. A childish imitation of his Dementor guards.

It's a bizarre impression, one Cornelius stares at it in disbelief. How can he mock the creature that sucks the joy and laughter from your very soul? Sirius Black is a ghost; a corpse of the aristocrat he once was, yet still holds the wit of one. Even his voice scratches against his jokes, as though his mouth is trying to remember how to form the words.

"They'll be back."

"Undoubtedly. It seems they can't get enough of me." A shadow crosses Black's face, but it's gone before Cornelius can name it. It's something empty, blank and sapped from all emotion. It makes Cornelius look away, to try hide from it lest that dark shadow somehow seeps into his own skin.

There is a silence between them, as heavy as the darkness around them. Cornelius cannot take his eyes off the man who is studying him with an equal fervor. Sharp eyes, cocked head and a wry grin curling his lips. It's the smile that coils around Cornelius's heart. He can't remember what it is to smile, or laugh or joke or breathe around the pit of dread in his stomach that has been eating him since the moment he crossed the boundary to Azkaban.

But this man, it's as though he feels none of it… He is as unnerving as the shadows that guard him.

"What's the weather like?"

"I—I beg your pardon?"

Black is still leaning on the bars, his head pressed against the metal. He's so thin, Cornelius wonders if he might just slip through them.

"The weather, Minister. What's it like?"

Cornelius jumps at the sharp cracks as Black stretches and pops the joints in his neck. They echo around the empty prison like gunshots. Black chuckles, studying Cornelius with his clear grey eyes, not missing the shudder that rocks Cornelius's spine or the tremble that shakes his voice.

"It's warm. Hot. Been hot all summer. Though I think it's going to rain next week, let me check—."

Cornelius shakes out the newspaper from under his arm and hides behind it, shielding himself from Blacks gaze. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the sweat running from his forehead.

All from a question of the weather. It astounds Cornelius how horrifying normality can feel when it is found within the pits of hell.

Cornelius feels McDonald's patronus before he sees it, a flickering glimmer of light down the end of an endless corridor. He sighs, clinging to the relief that comes with it.

How could he have forgotten the feeling of happiness so quickly?

How could Black have not?

"Ready to go, Minister?"

"Yes, McDonald."

Cornelius drops the paper and startles, cracking his head against the back wall. Black is standing straight, his eyes glued to the paper and panting deep, ragged breaths. He looks mad, teeth bared and eyes shining with it.

"Minister?"

"I… Yes!" Cornelius tears his eyes from the madman and tucks the paper under his arm, not hearing the small growl that emanates from between the bars. Black shakes his head. His eyes are clear again, though his jaw seems strained.

Cornelius nods, for lack of a better farewell, and moves to walk away.

"Can I have that? The paper?"

Cornelius turns at the voice. There is a smile on Black's lips, though it's tight, unreadable, with none of the coyness that played on it before.

"I do love the crosswords."

Cornelius blinks, but hands the crumpled, well-worn paper to Black who grasps it tightly in his talons.

"Thank you, Minister. I do hope you enjoyed your visit."

Black's eyes flicker behind him and darken. Two Dementors float up behind Cornelius and lean through the bars of the cell. Cornelius feels a patronus weave between his legs, though it does little to stop the hair rising on his arms or the ice that floods his heart. He can do nothing but watch as Sirius Black retreats from the bars and fade slowly back into the darkness. Back into shadows and rags and nothing.

"Minister Fudge?"

Cornelius shakes his head and allows McDonald to tug him away from the cell. The sound of Black's voice is still echoing in his head as he is carried back down to the foyer. If someone asked him what it was like to be wrapped in the arms of a Dementor, he would say it feels like falling: weightless and empty and with nothing to stop you from hitting the ground.

He doesn't feel his shoes slipping on the flagstones; his hands and feet are numb with the cold, but he barely notices. He is guided like a blind man through the gaping mouth of the prison and down the rocky shore to the blank, steady sea.

Cornelius doesn't realise he is even on the boat until they pass the boundary. The heat of the midday sun hits him like a train, burning the ice and sweat from his skin. It drags him ruthlessly from his thoughts and dumps him back into reality with a cough and a shudder. The captain laughs at him from the galley.

"Easy to lose yourself in that place, Minister."

"Yes I—I've heard…"

Cornelius shakes the smog from his head and shrugs off the heavy coat and bowler hat. He leans back, letting the spray of the ocean wash over his face and the sun burn away the mould of the prison. The sea is breathing again, rising and falling as steady as his own beating heart, and Cornelius trails his hand in it just to feel the water.

He puts his back to the black stain of Azkaban and looks towards the line where the shore cuts between the sky and the ocean, laughing as his heart reminds him what it feels like to be hopeful.

No one hears the other cackling laughter, the one that drifts across the waves from the walls of the black, stone prison.

THC

House: Gryffindor

Class: Astronomy

Prompt: [Time] - Midday

Words: 2907

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