Beautiful Day
Beautiful
Day
By Margot -
cherry@time-stranger.net
A/N: The word of the day is TIME, as it continues
to pass in Azkaban. Sirius learns that there is more than one
kind of prison and comes face to face with the son of the man
who sent him to jail, and discovers something a little short of
a profound understanding between them. Apparently, a lot of people
misinterpreted my comment about getting inspiration from Shawshank.
What I meant was, I was trying for the same sort of mood from
the movie's beginning: depressing, hopeless, in case my use of
adjectives and description is that poor (which it probably is),
so you have something to relate it to ^^' I got a bit of scene
inspiration in chapter three but that's where it ended. No Shawshank
in here. Anyhoo, the irony and all-around corniness (:P) of the
Black-White thing isn't lost on me. White was mentioned in chapter
three and I wasn't about to go and change it, just to confuse
people and make it less corny. I needed a last name! Lemme alone!
\ Thanks again to Nicole the Beta Reader, and to Star, ~*Tryst*~,
RavenLady, Miss Kitty, stardust31685, Pleiades (again ^^), Anna,
Gwendolyn Grace, Katia, Kate_AnguaPotter, Nagh, and mrs. padfoot.
I really appreciate it ^^
*
Chapter Four - The Visitors
*
"Time is the fire in
which we burn."
**
Time continued to pass in Azkaban.
As a month came and went, Sirius
became more confused. So many different emotions he was truly
experiencing for the first time... anger, sadness, hopelessness.
Of course, he'd known them before, but never had he been forced
to dwell on them with little distraction as he did now. He knew
that, on the Outside, at least he would have his friends to ease
his pain. But no, in here, everyone was feeling the same thing
as him and little they could say or do could help him. His random
thoughts were always muddy and cloudy and quickly forgotten -
only one observation really stood out at all:
So many emotions, so little
time.
He knew that a month had passed
because he'd been using the moon as a gauge of time. He had quite
a bit of experience memorizing the various phases of the moon
from his Hogwarts days and the years after. He remembered the
night the full moon had first made its appearance; the light of
it had danced across the floor of cell while he had sat on his
bed, knees hugged to his chest, wondering what his old friend
Remus Lupin was doing.
Of course, he knew.
Remus is a werewolf now.
It hadn't been a realization.
Sirius had known that Remus was a werewolf since they were twelve
years old. Perhaps, in actuality, it was simply the emphasis of
a fact he had always known.
When they had all been together,
a pack of wild animals under the moon, Remus had been himself,
only in the body of a wolf.
But now they were a pack divided.
Now, when Remus transformed, he became a real werewolf. He had
no one to keep an eye on him, no one to keep him in check, no
one to make sure that he remembered what he truly was inside.
Time continued to pass.
Before coming to Azkaban, Sirius
had heard stories of Dementors. He had heard that one would be
stripped of all happy memories around a Dementor, leaving one
to rot in his own despair. It hadn't been like that, not for Sirius.
He still had all the memories he'd every had - indeed, as the
long days passed with little to do, many forgotten ones had returned
- but he found that he remembered happy thoughts with little of
the joy he once did. When he remembered those exciting, joyous,
purely happy moments, it had been with an odd sense of detachment,
as though he had never really experienced them, as though he was
simply reading them out of a book or listening to them on the
radio, as though he was looking at them and thinking, "Oh,
yes, those sure were happy times."
He couldn't decide whether this
had to do more with the Dementor visits or the fact that the people
with whom he shared these memories were either dead or considered
him dead. It was probably a combination of both.
"They don't come back here
often," Aidan had reminded him, "because they like it
better near the front. That's where the wizards with short terms
to serve are. The new ones are like fresh meat. They come in here
with happiness and hope, so the Dementors like to hover around
them and suck it dry. But back here, we've all been rotting away
for a long time and they figure, we don't have happiness and hope,
so they don't bother with us. It's like choosing between two tables
piled with food: one of 'em's got cakes and sandwiches and pudding
and all the things people like to eat, and the other table's got
the same thing, only the cakes're turning hard and the sandwiches
are moldy. Can't blame 'em, I'd be the same if I was a Dementor.
That's where all the rumours on the Outside start, though. The
people who have short sentences get put there at the front where
the Dementors visit every day, and when they're free, they're
hopeless and sad and they go off and tell their friends what it
was like in here. We're in here till we die so we don't get to
talk to Outsiders, unless we're like White is, and we've got someone
to come an' visit us. I'm not gonna complain though, if it means
they'll leave us be."
As time ebbed on, Sirius found
himself conversing often with nearby prisoners. Reluctant as he
was to call anyone his friend, he developed a sort of kinship
with White, Radford, and of course Aidan, more so than the others.
Alban White, he found, had been a wealthy and well-respected Gringotts
manager. He and his daughter had owned a small collection of ancient
and rare spellbooks which, as old spellbooks usually did, had
a variety of Dark spells written within their pages. During a
raid, the books had been found and Alban was arrested. His sentence,
he told Sirius, was so long because his arrest had been during
the peak of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's activities. His wife had
since divorced and abandoned him. His daughter visited him once
every week or so, always bringing with her an edition of the Daily
Prophet and some unenchanted playing cards to keep him sane. She
hadn't visited in a while, White explained, as she was getting
married, but the other prisoners knew her. She was a lovely thing,
Aidan had remarked.
"Lovely and pretty. She
sometimes visits with the rest of us. Very nice girl, but always
so sad."
Jacob Radford had fled to London
from Addis Ababa, hoping to escape accusations that he had murdered
his older brother. He had failed and was apprehended soon after
his arrival. Of course, he never had visitors and his life on
the Outside had been humble at best.
The prisoners, however, had
acted strangely when Sirius himself was questioned about his past.
"What about you,"
Radford had once asked, "what about your family?"
"Quiet, Radford,"
White had barked back before Sirius could answer, "don't,
er, badger the boy."
A short pause from Radford had
followed while Aidan held Sirius's gaze. "Right. Sorry. Never
mind. Hey, White," he quickly recovered, "let's see
the old Prophet again, eh?"
Sirius's physical condition
continued to deteriorate. It had been a depressing discovery when,
about two or three weeks after his initial arrival, he had reached
his right arm over to his left shoulder to flick a bug away, only
to find how tragically thin his formerly muscular arms were. He
had swung his elbow back and forth, but it had only brought more
misery upon him when he had realized that it was true - this arm
really did belong to him. He had lifted up his shirt to examine
his stomach: he was still lean and thin, but no longer in an attractive
way. The outline of his ribs were showing through his skin. The
sight had almost made him cry.
So, time continued to pass.
"The Dementors visited
yesterday," Sirius stated flatly, as if it was something
that could have possibly been missed.
"Right. So?"
"So, their visits... are
different from the first one."
"Mmmm."
"The first time... it was
this constant screaming, this horrible screaming."
Sirius cupped his hands to his ears, remembering. "But then,"
he continued, quickly moving his hands away in slight embarassment,
"during the other visits, there were no screams. Just..."
he shuddered.
"S'like that for me, too,"
Aidan explained in his typical sees-all-hears-all fashion. "I
can only guess why, though. Dementors have different effects on
a person in here. Instead of your old, bad memories coming back,
it's all the old, bad memories of this place, this prison. That's
what gets to you." His eyes glazed over slightly and he quickly
shook himself. "But after the first time, it doesn't happen
again. Not sure why... just this place, I suppose. Its way of
welcoming you. This place, I don't think even the smartest wizards
could figure it out. The next few times, it's just loneliness
and despair... hopelessness..." His eyes glazed over again
and this time he did not come back.
*******
A faint tapping noise could
be heard from the far end of the corridor. It was slowly growing
louder in volume as it neared Sirius's cell. His back straightened
as he struggled to place the noise. Like footsteps, only...
When was the last time he'd
heard footsteps from the corridor? Dementors never made a sound.
"Charlotte!" White
shouted from the next cell. The source of the footsteps finally
passed Sirius and he caught his breath in his throat. A frail,
almost waif-like woman, no older than twenty and covered from
chest to foot in ghostly white robes stepped by. The robes' sleeves
ended several centimetres above her wrists, revealing thin, almost
deathly pale hands and fingers. Her neck was long and slender,
and her face - what Sirius saw of it as she quickly passed - was
quite pale as well, with high cheek bones and fine red lips. Her
long, pencil-straight brown hair flitted back as she skirted down
the hall. Sirius could hear her stop just outside White's cell.
"Daddy," she said
quietly. Sirius could hear shouts of greeting from the other cells.
"I brought you the new Prophet, but it's not good news. They're
predicting a storm tomorrow, I do hope the charm will be able
to keep it off."
What charm?, Sirius wondered, but the thought quickly
passed as Charlotte continued.
"Then that Peter Pettigrew,
you know the one, he was awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class.
They've stopped rounding up Death Eaters for the time."
"Never mind that, Charlotte,"
White's voice came again, "tell us about the wedding."
"It was... so lovely,"
Charlotte's voice trailed, and Sirius instantly knew that she
didn't believe her own words. "Bernard's family and Mother
did a wonderful job, they were all so happy. Everything went according
to plan. Bernard looked smashing, he was so pleased. He didn't
go with a Muggle tuxedo, like I wanted, because you know that
those just look better than those silly men's wedding robes from
Gladrags, but he wanted those. Mother agreed and I relented. She
cried during the ceremony. It was... just. Lovely."
Sirius could hear distinct traces
of frustration and sympathy in White's voice. "It sounds
wonderful," he replied, but clearly he didn't think it sounded
wonderful at all. "How has married life been getting on?"
"It's... oh, well, it's
what I expected at least. Bernard handles everything, of course.
He won't let me do any of it, except cleaning and cooking, and
you know I'm rubbish at cooking. I've been pestering him about
allowing me a day job in Diagon Alley, maybe at Flourish and Blotts
so I could get a bit of a discount on books, just to keep busy,
but he won't hear of it. Says it's not my job to make the money,
I'm really just there to continue the line, so I should just act
like a nice wife should and leave it at that."
Sirius looked into Aidan's cell
and could see him rubbing his forehead with his hands, eyes closed.
"Charlotte-"
"It's all right though,"
Charlotte's voice filled with a false cheer, "it really is.
I don't mind. Mother says Bernard is really the right man for
me and it's not as though I'm in position to argue. In any case,
I don't want to talk about it anymore. How have things been in
here, where's Aidan?"
Aidan lifted his head. "Over
here, Charlotte."
Charlotte once again moved into
Sirius's view, only with her back to him. Her hair, he noticed,
was very fine, a dark chestnut brown that hung just below her
shoulder blades. Her white robes were simple, tied at the waist
with a thick black cord. She was wearing no jewelry that Sirius
could see, save for a simple gold band on the ring finger of her
left hand.
"Aidan, how are you?"
Aidan got to his feet. "Been
getting on. We've missed your visits around here."
"I wanted to visit, you
know that... but Mother wanted me to help her with wedding arrangements.
Of course," and now Sirius could hear unmistakeable bitterness,
"in the end, I did nothing. Bernard didn't even want me to
come today. There was a row, but in the end I won."
"That's good to hear. Can
I introduce you to someone?"
"Oh... yes, of course."
"In the cell behind you.
Sirius Black, this is Charlotte... Hafgan now? Charlotte Hafgan.
Charlotte, that's Sirius."
Sirius got to his feet and suddenly
became aware of his filthy and unhealthy appearance. The pale
skin on his arms was streaked with dirt, with faint white lines
here and there where he tried to scrape it off. His fingernails
were filled with dirt and he could feel his greasy, unkempt hair
fall limply from his head to dangle just below his ears. It didn't
seem to matter to Charlotte; she turned with a small "Hello"
and appeared to be avoiding his gaze altogether. Sirius guessed
that this had little to do with the fact that he was the accused
murderer of the man she had previously mentioned and more to do
with what he saw in her appearance.
Getting a better look at Charlotte,
Sirius stopped feeling so bad about his own looks; Charlotte was
clean and trim, however, there was a large black bruise on her
jaw and dark gray circles were etched under her eyes. She looked
extremely tired and very unhappy.
"It's, ah... a pleasure,"
Sirius nodded back. Charlotte gave him a faint smile, then turned
back for her father's cell.
Sirius slowly sank to the floor
again but crawled closer to the cell bars as he saw Aidan beckon.
"That poor girl's been abused by her boyfriend since she
met him three years ago, but what can she do? Her father can't
defend her and she doesn't know how to defend herself. Poor thing's
weak, her mother barely notices her. She's got a strong mind,
though. God forbid she lands herself in Azkaban, she'd last a
long time. She comes here to see her dad, that, but also to comfort
herself. 'The true way to soften one's troubles is to solace those
of others.' Forget who said that. Madame Mignon, something. That's
not the point. There's all sorts of prisons, you see?" He
spoke quietly, just out of Charlotte's earshot. Sirius simply
nodded in return. He wasn't particularly interested in pursuing
the subject; he had his own problems to worry about, without having
to concern himself over the status of strangers. Even thinking
this way, however, he still couldn't shake her bruised and melancholic
face from his mind.
Time continued to pass.
*******
Sirius wrestled himself awake.
He'd been dreaming... in his dream, he'd been on the Outside,
standing on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. In the distance,
he'd seen two ships: one with a black mast and one with a white
mast. He'd wanted to board the white ship but somehow, it was
simply stationary on the horizon... only the black ship neared
him. He'd shouted and screamed at the white ship to come close,
but it kept bobbing above the waves, never nearing him...
The details of the dream quickly
evaporated as the sounds of reality flooded Sirius's ears.
What time is it?
He looked up towards the tiny
window- still pitch black out.
What the hell...
He looked out of his cell and
could see Aidan stirring slightly. He could hear, down the corridor,
footsteps... but it was not one person, it sounded like eight
or nine. There were sounds of scraping- someone's trainers scraping
against the dirty floor. Someone struggling. Also, a voice- someone
screaming and pleading, sobbing.
By now, Aidan had tumbled out
of his small cot and stumbled over to the cell door. He gave Sirius
a curious look, then turned back to the door and craned his neck
to try and see out of it.
The footsteps were coming closer.
Sirius sat on the edge of his cot, staring out... finally, the
source of the footsteps passed.
Four people, their hands in
cuffs, filed by, each flanked by a guard. Some looked proud; others,
frightened but determined. All stood straight-backed and face-forward,
putting up no resistance. Confused, Sirius continued to stare
out to the corridor. The sight that met his eyes, however, was
one which he could never have expected.
Barty Crouch?
Barty Crouch, the boy who'd
been only two years under Sirius at Hogwarts, who'd achieved a
record-setting number of O.W.Ls, always the last to leave the
Common Room at night and the first to enter it in the morning.
Barty Crouch, never seen without a dozen books slung across his
back. Barty Crouch, to whom Professor McGonagall always referred;
"Barty Crouch is only a fifth year and he can
transfigure a lamb into a lion faster than any of you can!"
Barty Crouch, the son of the very man who sent Sirius to prison.
The boy was pale, whiter than
even Charlotte. His strawberry blond hair looked to be falling
out in some areas, although whether this was from stress or physically
pulling it out was hard to know. His brown eyes were the size
of quarters, round and shining with fright. Two guards struggled
to haul him down the corridor, each trying to hold his arms to
his body and steer him. He was, at least, putting up the good
fight; he flailed and twisted his arms, attempting to elbow or
otherwise injure the guards and flopping from side to side, trying
to slow them down. Tear streaks shined on his face and he screamed,
over and over, "Let me go!! I'm innocent!"
Sirius stared quietly at the
boy as the guards struggled past with him, his knees hugged to
his chest..
Stop struggling, you idiot...
Barty suddenly flung out an
arm and wrapped five long fingers around one of the bars in Sirius's
cell door. They curled around the black bar and began to turn
white with the effort. He yanked the rest of his body towards
the bars and threw his other arm around them, wailing and sobbing.
The guards tried to wrestle his arms away, but apparently the
boy was much stronger than he looked, as he proved to be more
than a worthy opponent against them.
Without realizing it, Sirius
clutched his knees closer.
Finally, Barty looked, truly
looked, into the cell and saw Sirius, crouched and small
on the tiny cot. If even possible, his eyes widened more as he
stared at Sirius, still clutching the bars while the guards tried
to pull him away. Shining tears continued to slide down his cheeks
but he became silent, staring at the prisoner with an unreadable
expression. Sirius stared back, wondering what could possibly
be so captivating about him... then, he knew.
Dirt.
He was covered in it. He could
feel it on his arms, his cheeks, all over his body. He knew how
horribly dirty he was, how skinny and pale, knew that his visible
ankles were only as wide as a couple of fingers' width. Knew what
Barty Crouch was thinking...
That is me, that will be
me.
Sirius knew, almost as though
a jolt had run through his body, that Barty Crouch had given up
the fight. In a few seconds, his fingers loosened around the bars
and the guards yanked him away, his penetrating stare lingering
on Sirius until long after he'd been dragged out of sight.
The corridor echoed with a horrible,
drumming silence. Sirius continued to stare at the spot where
Barty had been, into Aidan's cell. Aidan looked back at him, a
confused expression on his face, but Sirius couldn't even see
it.
He could see nothing.
He dreamed again that night.
He was sitting on the cot in
his cell, legs pulled towards his chest, and staring at his knees.
He could feel, as the time passed, that years and years were drifting
by. His hair grew longer and longer and his body got weaker and
weaker, his skin got paler and his stomach got emptier. Lines
spread across his face like tiny, shivery spider threads and still
he sat, as he got older and weaker. Finally, he could feel his
heart stop. And he awoke.
Time continued to pass.