A/N Okay, third story time. If you liked this one, please read my other ones. And if you didn't like this one, well………sorry, sue me when I'm rich and famous.
Disclaimer: Wasn't me. (I love that song!) It was J.K. Rowling. All HER fault.
AZKABAN
Tossed by the wind like bits of grey rag, the gulls screamed and dived, dodging away from Azkaban's high, stone, walls and back out over the bleak, black sea.
Halfway up the castle's tallest tower, was a small window with iron bars. Staring out of the window was a face so haggard and pale, so pinched and expressionless, that it barely looked like a face at all. This was Sirius Black. When he had first come to the prison, he had been almost frozen by the cold and continually drenched by the spray that his window did nothing to keep out. Day and night, the gales screamed and moaned around the lonely fortress of Azkaban and the angry sea pounded the rocks below. Now, he hardly felt or noticed it. Sirius spent his days siting on his narrow, hard bed, gazing out of the window at the icy mountains of water and foam. He had nothing better to do to do.
He wasn't bored. He could hardly remember what boredom was. He could hardly remember anything. He was numb. Sometimes, he stared at the horizon and a storm of confusing and desperate memories of what lay beyond it flooded over him. They made no sense to him. People, places, events... His own past was a messy blur.
He often thought it had just been a dream.
*
Cornelius Fudge woke up on Friday feeling glum. Today was the day of his annual inspection of Azkaban. Very few people look forward to visiting Azkaban and Fudge was no exception. But he was the Minister of Magic and it was his duty to visit and to see that everything was running smoothly. He wouldn't have to talk to any of the prisoners, (most of them were unable to talk, anyway,) and the dementors always left him to get on with whatever he had to do. But he hated Azkaban. He hated the cold and the damp and the feeling of evil that hung over the place, like a bad smell. It left him feeling weak and shaky for days afterwards. Mrs. Fudge had already got up. He could hear her cooking breakfast in the kitchen. He could also hear the voices of the wizarding sightseers down in the street. Every day, half a dozen or so would gather out-side and wait for him to leave the house on his way to the Ministry Palace. They would shake his hand, cheer and wave and ask for photos. Normally the sight of them cheered Fudge up. But today, they had little or no affect.
He dressed slowly and went downstairs. Mrs. Fudge had made him a fortifying cup of tea, but he turned down the offer of bacon and eggs. To get to the prison, you had to go on a very rough boat ride, and he didn't want to risk being sick. He collected his parcel of sandwiches and set off to the Ministry Headquarters. He had to pick up the files left from his last Azkaban visit.
*
Sirius was still staring out of the window. He hadn't slept all night. He very rarely did. Dawn had come to the prison, it's freezing, silver fingers had pushed away the darkness, but Azkaban was still icy, still grey. Even in Summer, the sun never shone, the sea was never blue, just grey.
The Dementors hadn't brought his breakfast yet, but he could hear the other prisoners being fed. He could hear the clatter of tin bowls on stone floors and the ravenous cries of prisoners. They were half mad, some of them. They muttered, they moaned, they stuttered and groaned. They had forgotten what it was like to live. There were no other cells on Sirius's corridor, so when he heard the sound of the Dementor's cloak trailing along the ground, he knew that he would be next to be fed. He heard the Dementor stop outside his door, and the jangle of keys. Then the door opened a fraction, and a mouldy, rotten hand pushed the bowl inside. The door shut and the Dementor passed on.
After his first year, Sirius had really stopped eating properly. He didn't see the point. He didn't care if he lived or died now. The life he had at that moment as much to him as the Dementors did. He looked over at the filthy, cracked bowl. The mixture inside was grey, congealed and about as appetising as a nice plate of bird droppings.
Sirius slid of the bed, crawled slowly and painfully across the floor and dipped one long, thin finger inside the bowl. He lifted it up until it was level with his face and watched the gruel drip off his finger into the bowl again.
Two hours later, when the contents of the bowl had set like cement, Sirius stopped watching it, and dragged himself back to the bed.
Far away, over the sea, he heard, as if in a dream for he had not heard that sound for a very long time, the distant whine of the Ministry's prison boat. The Minister for Magic was on his way, and though he was not aware of it, so was Sirius's ticket to freedom.
The magical motor boat rocked and bumped against the harbour wall as Cornelius Fudge carefully clambered in. The waves slashed the boat back, as if in angry retaliation. Cornelius Fudge groaned. He had only just got in the boat, but already he felt sick. He checked in his pocket for the seasickness pills that Mrs. Fudge always insisted on giving him, and hastily popped one in his mouth.
It was a long way to Axkaban.