A/N This fic follows on directly from my Remus and Sirius one shot Letters to No One (though both can be read as stand alone stories) it is, in turn, followed by my canon divergent longfic It Wouldn't Be An Adventure Without You."It Wouldn't Be an Adventure" is a wolfstar fic and - though this story has no actual wolfstar in it - Sirius's feelings will be apparent from time to time; I just wanted to state that upfront to warn any readers for whom wolfstar is a dealbreaker. Other than the occasional glimpse of wolfstar, this fic is entirely canon compliant.

A Grim Tale

Chapter One: Day 4280

The inky black turned to navy blue - and it wasn't much later that the first tinges of grey began to bleed through, turning the sky into the leaden bleakness it would remain all day. It was July - the height of summer - but the iron light made it look and feel like November.

A cold breeze blew through the bars, bringing with it the tangy smell of salt and decaying seaweed. It crept into every corner of the cell and ruffled Sirius's fur, nipping at him - telling him to wake up.

Sirius always slept as a dog. He spent as much time as a dog as he could. It was cold here and his prison robes were thin, as was his blanket. There was no glass in the window - only bars - and his cell, his home, was open to all the elements. He had not been warm for almost twelve years. He missed being warm - missed the warmth almost as much as he missed James - but Padfoot's fur gave him a modicum of protection. It was probably the only reason he had not yet died in his sleep.

Sometimes - in the very height of winter - he would make the decision to sleep in his human form; to toss the ratty old blanket across the cell and just lie down and wait for the cold to do its work. But somehow - and it seemed ridiculous even to him - he was never quite strong enough. God he had no reason to live, god he had reason enough to wish to die … and yet whenever he felt those icy fingers grasping and nipping at his flesh, his extremities going numb, he would never last more than an hour before he gave in and transformed, cursing himself even as he did it. And in the morning, the cold would have carried off another prisoner ... and he would curse again that that might have been him, that he might have been free - the only freedom he would ever know - if only he had not given in to his weakness.

He would wake up - and feel the disappointment - and then wrap himself in his blanket, which did no good, and comfort himself that he did not want to die really. To die would be selfish. He would go to James and be warm and happy again, when he had not yet suffered enough to deserve that, and poor Remus would be left - reading in the paper that notorious mass murderer, Sirius Black, was dead. Sirius did not want Moony to have to read about him in the paper - for any reason. Wherever he was, Remus was happy and loved and getting on with his life - Sirius had to believe that - and he did not want reminding of the heartbreaks of his past. Sirius did not want to encroach on Remus - to ruin things for him - even by dying.

But last night had not been cold enough to kill; it was summer after all. And this morning the breeze was no more than uncomfortable, and - when he heard the scraping of the lock on his cell door - he transformed back into a man, ready for breakfast.

He pinned himself against the far wall - keeping as far away from the guard as he could. The door swung open, the dementor glided in - and the cold changed from uncomfortable to icy. The grey deepened. Everything felt stale - the air in Sirius's lungs felt old and devoid of oxygen - like it was suffocating him from the inside. He clenched his fists, closed his eyes, remembered he was innocent of all the terrible things they had said he had done - and waited for it to be over.

He heard the rattly sound of the dementor's breath being drawn through its diseased and decayed lungs … but he kept his thoughts firmly neutral: I am innocent, I am innocent, i am innocent and tried to ignore the terrible, painful howling that echoed inside his head whenever a guard got to close. I am innocent, I am innocent, I am innocent and - disappointed that there was nothing inside Sirius it could steal - the dementor placed the bread and water on the ground and drifted back outside.

The howling subsided and the iron door clanged shut, the noise of it reverberating for a further three seconds. It always reverberated for exactly three seconds. And the lock scraped back into place - and Sirius was alone once more.

He crossed the twelve paces of his cell and then squatted down, tearing off hunks of the bread with his teeth and swallowing them without chewing. He was so hungry. He was always so hungry - this was all he would be given until the evening, when he would get the same once again.

He hadn't looked in a mirror in twelve years (he had once quite liked looking in mirrors) and no doubt he would not like what he would see if he did. But even in the semi gloom of this dank, little hole he could see how thin he had become, under his prison robes. How emaciated he was. His limbs were skeletal - he could almost wrap his left hand around his right bicep…

Once his meagre breakfast was eaten, he crawled back to the window and used his nail to carve his next mark into the crumbling wall. If he remembered the number from his count yesterday correctly, then this was the 4280th mark he had made … no wonder his fingernails were always bleeding. 4280 days in hell.

He started to count the tally marks, to double check he had it right. He counted the marks every day - there was precious little else for him to do. And with this many marks - and the dementors outside the door, making it hard to think - it could take him a good long while to count them all and make sure he had it right.

He ran his finger over the groove of the very first mark - the very first one he had carved on his very first day here, the day they had first thrown him in and slammed the door. It had been his twenty-second birthday, that day; just a week previously he and James had been talking about his going to Godric's Hollow that evening for drinks to celebrate. But James was dead, Peter was dead, and Sirius was a fool, doing penance in his cell. There was so much rage and pain and guilt carved into that first mark. Now - almost twelve years later - there was just continual numbness. The grey had sapped everything from him, his energy, his need to be punished - which had burned so brightly within him when they arrested him. Even his will to survive had ebbed away. Everything was muted - bleached of all feelings, just as Azkaban was bleached of all colour.

The light had moved position on the cell floor by the time he was finally done. It had taken well over an hour - or so the grey light told him - but he had been right. It was day 4280. Next - he had to count the paces of his cell, and then all the bricks in the wall.

These never changed - but he checked them every day. Just in case.

There was a minor upset when he miscounted the stones which made up the wall around his door - finding 69 rather than the usual 68. For a moment his whole cramped, little world tilted on its axis. But then he counted again - found there were still only 68, as usual, and - with a sense of relief that these past twelve years of repetitive counting had not been a lie - his routine was done for the day.

Only now he had to fill the rest of his hours until it was time to sleep. He couldn't face the thought of another game of I Spy. He was excellent at guessing what it was he could see; he always got it in five - three on a good day. The game never lasted more than a minute.

With no other ideas for entertainment, he decided now was as good a time as any to write another letter to Remus. He sat down on his mattress, pulled his knees up to his chin, wrapped his arms around them and closed his eyes.

Dearest Moony,

He thought to himself.

It's day 4280 here. I should know - I just made the mark and counted it back. 4280 days of absolutely nothing. I have nothing to tell you today - no news to share. Well how could I? But I still wanted to talk to you. I miss you. I can't think how or why without inviting the dementors to come to my door and steal all my memories of you - but I do miss you.

Sometimes I'm not sure which is worse - the ache in my heart where you and James should be, or the boredom. I think today it is the boredom. Oh God, Moony - the boredom! You know what I get like at the best of times. How restless I am - how I always needed constant entertaining. I miss us doing the crossword together, or us skimming stones - or us all sitting by the fire - James with the Quidditch on - while I tinker with whatever contraption you had found for me to take apart … I miss my motorbike … I miss …

…

Sorry. The dementors came. Well - what do I expect, thinking of the things I loved? I know better than that.

What was I saying? Yes - the boredom. Such a small cell, nothing to look at and nothing ever changes. Day after interminable day just as bleak and endless as the last. The worst thing about this place - worse than the misery - worse than the cold - is that nothing ever happe …

He opened his eyes, his thoughts crunching to a halt. He had just heard a sound - distant but clear - from beyond the bars and walls that held him. A sound he had heard plenty of times in the past … but which wasn't due today. He got to his feet and went to peer out of the window.

He could just see - far below him - a little rowing boat had just landed on the handful of jagged pebbles, which passed for a beach on this miserable island. He frowned - and ran his fingertips over the carved marks on his wall - wondering if he had counted wrong after all. Today wasn't a prisoner transport day … they only happened on the days which were a multiple of seven. This was an unscheduled arrival. This meant … he couldn't quite believe it - but this meant that something was happening.

He stared downward, straining his eyes, watching the distant signs of movement merge into shapes and then start to form details. There was even colour. A portly looking gentleman was puffing his way up the rocky outcrop towards the prison. His cloak was pinstriped and his bowler hat … was lime green. Sirius had not seen green in twelve years. He wasn't even sure he had it right - was remembering correctly - the word sounded alien in his thoughts.

There was another man with him - rangy and grim faced and whose tawny hair gave him the impression of an elderly lion.

They looked official. These weren't prisoners. They were not chained and weeping the way new inmates were when they arrived (though the two men by no means looked happy to be there). This was a Ministry visit. An inspection.

Sirius turned from the window, as the Ministry wizards disappeared inside - he would see them soon enough. There was no way they would come out to the island and not stop to look in on notorious mass murderer, Sirius Black.

He felt a ghost of a grin flit across his face … he liked being inspected. He liked messing with the Ministry ponces … and the fat chap with the hat looked particularly pompous. He'd be able to tell Moony all about it when he got back to writing his letter… The temperature of the cell suddenly plummeted - and he heard the familiar death rattle outside his door. He had allowed himself to be too happy for too long (barely - and for just a moment). The dementors were back. The howling started up inside his head again - ferocious and agonised and so loud that he could hardly think over it. But he must - it was the only way to stop it.

He stumbled back to his mattress: I am innocent, I am innocent, I am innocent - and kept his eyes closed until the worst was past. And he stayed that way for he didn't know how long until he heard the sound of approaching voices.

'Yes, well - of course I remember it all too clearly … terrible, terrible - I still have nightmares.'

Sirius suspected this voice belonged to the fat chap with the hat - it sounded pompous, and was trembling with nerves.

'Black is a maniac,' the other voice growled - sounding very much like an elderly lion. 'He annihilated little Pettigrew.'

'And then he stood there and laughed …'

The voices and the footsteps came to a halt outside his door. Sirius glanced around - and located the most shadowy corner of his cell. While the lock was scraping open, he bolted over to it and hid in the darkness … Popping up out of the gloom and giving Bowler Hat a heart attack would be the best laugh he had had in twelve years.

The door swung open and the two Ministry wizards stepped inside, 'yes - thank you there is - er - no need to accompany us…' Bowler Hat's voice quavered as he spoke to the dementor - and the dementor bowed its cloaked head and glided backwards, leaving the two men alone, inside the cell.

They peered around - as if their eyes were struggling to adjust to the murky light. 'Where is…?'

Bowler Hat sounded nothing short of terrified - and Sirius took that as his moment to jump to his feet and loom out of the darkness.

'To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?'

Bowler Hat actually yelped and jumped back a step. Even the old lion looked unnerved. Sirius grinned at them … and the horrified expression on their faces made him wonder just exactly what it was he looked like after all these years alone in the dark.

'Yes - er - well - yes - Black…' Bowler Hat tried to stiffen his spine and take control of the situation. Sirius smirked - he wasn't going to let that happen. He nodded his head in greeting at the sound of his name.

'And you are?'

Bowler Hat looked even more discomfited - as if he had not expected to be greeted so courteously, as if the monster in the cage speaking so politely was even more disturbing than if he had howled and raged and run at them to attack. He clutched his hat more tightly in one hand. His other held a rolled up newspaper - and he was gripping that so hard his knuckles were gleaming white in the gloom. He shouldn't be holding that paper, Sirius thought to himself; it rattled - betraying just how badly his hands were trembling.

But once again, the Ministry wizard tried to assert some control. 'I am Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge,' he said, rather self importantly.

'Bagnold has retired?'

'Some years ago.'

'Well - I've been rather out of the loop, I'm afraid. Congratulations on getting the top job.'

Fudge looked even more unnerved. He squeezed his paper. This conversation was clearly not going as expected - and Sirius pressed home his advantage.

'So, Minister - what brings someone of your lofty position to our humble, little corner of the world?'

The Minister pulled himself up to his full height - and seemed to bristle… like he knew he was being mocked and he didn't like it one bit. 'I am here to check on the running of things - on the situation - and the condition of the inmates.'

'Well - you wouldn't want us being mistreated now, would you?'

Fudge bristled again. 'Azkaban is a matter of National Security,' he said tightly. 'I owe it to the people I govern to make sure our country remains safe.'

'From me,' Sirius stepped forward and leered.

Fudge shuffled back. 'From people like you.'

'And how do you find it here?' He started walking slowly towards the two men - who tried to pretend they were not backing off, but there was no denying that they were. 'What do you think of the conditions? Is this humane? Are you satisfied with how you treat your fellow man?'

'You - you earned your place here, Black,' Fudge stuttered. The cell was small and he had run out of room to back away.

Sirius came to a stop. 'I have never denied that.'

'Well … then … what - what more could you possibly want?'

'Your paper.'

Fudge looked bewildered. Sirius raised his eyebrow and nodded down at the newspaper still clutched in Fudge's hand. 'Your newspaper - if you are done with it. Like I said - I have been out of the loop … and I do miss doing the crossword.'

'Er - y-yes. Of - of course.' And - shaking so badly he nearly dropped it - he extended the paper out to Sirius. Sirius snatched it from him - pulling a face, just for a second, which made him look utterly deranged. Fudge squealed and jumped backwards - hitting the wall - and suddenly Sirius's face was normal again. As if it had never happened - as if Fudge was imagining things. He nodded - polite as ever. 'Thank you, Minister - you cannot know how much this will break up the tedium for me.'

'I - er - well - I… Yes. Well. Scrimgeour? I think we've seen everything here, let's go.'

'Enjoy the rest of your visit, Minister.'

'Er… yes…' and with a nervous glance back at Sirius, he scurried to the door and banged on it to be let out.

Sirius braced himself for the presence of the dementor. I am innocent, I am innocent, I am innocent . The howling started up - the door swung open, the wizards walked out (scurried might perhaps be a better term - dignity was clearly less important than getting away from the monster in the cage) and then the door clanged shut again, reverberating for exactly three seconds.

And Sirius sat down on his mattress and stared in wonder at the paper in his hands. When he got back to writing his letter, he would have to tell Moony about his good fortune. Just holding this thing was like having a little part of Remus here in the cell with him. The rustle of the pages, the smell of the ink … it reminded him of their golden past. Hogwarts. Home. The roaring fire in Gryffindor common room (when warmth was something he had taken for granted), James playing wizards' chess with … well, James playing wizards' chess, and Remus balanced on the arm of Sirius's chair helping him with the crossword clues.

Eagerly, he flicked through until he found the right page. And, staring at those black and white squares - for the first time in twelve years - felt like suddenly seeing Remus, like he was waving to him from across the years … Not that he remembered what Remus looked like. He had spent too long carefully not thinking of his face to remember that.

He read a clue to himself - and was transported back in time:

'Nine down - carnivorous beast also known as the "the living shroud" is a lethifold.'

'Thanks.'

Well, of course Remus would have known that - he knew everything there was to know about dark creatures. He ran his fingers across the clues - as if they were braille - and closed his eyes for a moment.

He would limit himself, he decided, to one clue a day - to eke this out for as long as possible. And every day he would write to Remus to discuss the clue - just like they had when they were boys during the school hols. That would …

He heard the death rattle at his door, and all went cold and the howling started up again - and Harry's cries as he sat trapped in his crib, not understanding what was lost. He had got sloppy. He had thought of far too many happy things for far too long - and now the dementors were feasting at his door.

I am innocent, I am innocent, I am innocent. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the damp stones and thought of nothing but how he was not what everyone said he was, until finally the sound of the decayed sucking of air disappeared from behind the door and the temperature rose marginally.

He needed to be more careful. This paper was a godsend - something to read, something to distract him; he could live off this for weeks - months - years to come. He could reread this until the ink wore away and he knew every word of it off by heart - and then he could spend the days reciting it back to himself like an epic poem … but he couldn't afford to let himself feel happy about it. He couldn't get lost in his memories of Moony, otherwise the dementors would take them. Pain was how he held onto his friends now, pain at their separation, pain at his loss - that was the only way he could keep those he loved forever in his heart. He could not afford to forget that - no matter how wonderful the prospect of a newspaper was.

He took a few deep breaths and closed the paper, turning away from the crossword and back to the front page. He would start at the very beginning. He would let himself read it through - all the way - quickly - and then, if there was still enough light, he would go through the articles more slowly; savouring every word … no matter what those words were.

Minister's Muddleheaded Mistake

Screamed the very first headline - and Sirius smirked to himself, wondering how the pompous Bowler Hat had felt reading that this morning.

Fudge's Foolish Fantasy of Floo Powder Tax Hike

And Sirius read a long (and really quite nasty) article by Rita Skeeter all about how Fudge was hoping to prop up the finances of the Magical Transportation Department by increasing the cost of Floo powder and netting the extra profit for the Ministry itself.

'Oh now really,'

Bowler Hat was quoted as saying.

'With more people than ever using the Floo Network, it is imperative that we keep it clean and functional. Chimneys don't clean themselves, you know? And the resources it will take to keep your network clear has to be paid for somehow.'

But Rita was having none of it - and she quite clearly delighted in casting aspersions on whether or not Fudge was still fit for the job - and whether or not he ever had been fit for the job. (She seemed to think not and - loathe as he was to agree with Rita Skeeter - Sirius couldn't help but think she was onto something.)

Sirius remembered Rita all too well from school. She had been several years older and had written several nasty articles about Sirius, himself, in her weekly school newsletter. Once she had even posited that there was no doubt a cell in Azkaban waiting patiently with his name on it. He looked around his dank, little home … She probably congratulated herself daily on calling that correctly, nearly ten years before he was ever arrested.

She had written several other rather nasty articles throughout the paper - about the mishandling of certain vaults by the goblins in Gringotts; about a rise in centaur hostility against the magical community; a piece on some Ministry Hag that wanted to round up and tag merpeople; whether or not the stadium would be ready for the Quidditch World Cup next summer and a rather scathing short story about Aberforth Dumbledore being taken before the wizengamot due to his practising inappropriate charms on goats.

Well … Sirius remembered Aberforth as well. He always had been a bit of an old goatfu-

He turned to the next page and stared in amazement as Fabian and Gideon Prewett stared back at him, waving cheerily. It took him a few moments to realise that they were far too young - it could not be the twins he had known back in The Order. And anyway - the Prewett twins were dead. They had not survived the war … too many people had not survived the war.

He looked at the headline:

Ministry of Magic Employee Scoops Grand Prize

The article was about a man called Arthur Weasley who had won The Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw and taken his (rather large) family on holiday to Egypt. Well… that explained it. Sirius did not know Arthur Weasley, but Molly Weasley was Molly Prewett as was: The legendary Gryffndor Quidditch Captain who had been good enough to play for England, only she had chosen to get married and had a baby instead.

'Baby' had clearly become 'babies' - and they were now mostly Hogwarts age. Including a pair of twins who were the very image of their uncles. But there were also three older boys, a pretty little girl and a tall, rather lanky boy - right in the middle of the photo - with his pet rat sitting on his …

Sirius stared. He felt an explosion go off in his brain - like someone had just lit a fire under the cauldron of his mind and stoked the flames. That rat. THAT. RAT .

He would know him anywhere - had seen him transform - a hundred, a thousand times. Until this moment he did not even know he still knew what Wormtail looked like. He had long since lost James' and Remus's faces. And he had never even bothered to think about Peter. Had been glad to forget him. Had rewritten his own history so there never had been a fourth boy in their little group.

But there he was. That rat. Sitting on that boy's shoulder, bold as brass. Alive and well and - Sirius forced his eyes away from the photo and scanned the article - going back to Hogwarts. Going back to Harry .

His hands started to shake so much that he dropped the paper. He fell onto all fours and took some deep breaths - and felt the gorge rise in his throat. That Rat . He wretched - his body convulsing painfully over and over - but he had nothing to bring up and the bile just burned acidic in his mouth.

He crawled to his mattress and lay down - staring at the ceiling. That Rat.

He had to do something. And just as quickly as he had fallen down he was back up again - and pacing. He had to do something. Peter was alive. Harry was in danger. And no one knew but him. And here he was, trapped uselessly behind these bars and thick, stone walls.

He paced all the harder - his muscles screamed; he had not walked this fast for this long in so many years, had let himself waste away. He would have to … the thought made him tremble but he would have to…

He kept on pacing. He needed to think this through. Nothing hasty, nothing rushed. He needed to be sensible. He needed someone sensible - to talk it over with. To plan with. To make sure he got every detail right. But he wasn't sensible. He was reckless and dangerous. He acted first and thought later - and the consequences were very often terrible. They had called him a nutter long before he had got himself locked up. This time he needed to think, and he needed someone who was good at thinking. He needed …

Moony! Dearest Moony!

Something has happened. 4280 marks on my wall and something has finally happened…