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 ^^

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Chapter Four - The Visitors

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"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.