One thousand two hundred twenty two. One thousand two hundred twenty three. One thousand two hundred twenty four. A single finger moved slowly across his line of vision, counting bricks. One thousand two hundred twenty five. Eyes deadened from lack of life follow the filthy digit as it makes its way across his own little personal hell hole. One thousand two hundred twenty six. Was that screaming he heard? Probably some new inmate. He'd learn. One thousand two hundred twenty seven. They all learned after a while.
One thousand two hundred twenty seven. Or was it twenty nine? No, it was twenty eight. He was sure of it. Outside, the screaming grew louder.
"William! William! Oh God, don't touch me! William! Willia-a-a-am!"
His finger faltered, but the convict resumed counting momentarily. That was Clarissa's voice. He remembered her from school, her brown hair so long she could sit on it, a long and shimmering veil that enhanced her mystique. A Ravenclaw, his mind recalled slowly. She'd turned to the dark, though. Married William Lestrange, a notorious Slytherin. No surprise she was here now.
A rat scurried from a hole out into a corner of his cell. A happening glance at it and the man lunges at it, overcome for it by a fit of rage.
"Peter! James and Lily, Peter, James and LILY!"
In mid lunge the swift transformation to canine is made and the not quite foaming beast snaps his jaws in frustration as the rat makes good its escape, frightened out its furry little wits. Sirius loathed rats. They reminded of him of Peter, which sent him into a fit of fury. But he'd never managed to catch one, to snap its neck in two, crush its skull, like he wanted so badly to do to Peter. Perhaps it was symbolic. Maybe he'd never catch a rat until the one he really wanted was dead.
* * *
"You. Boy. You, there."
A soft whispering in his ear startled the youth and he whirled around, blue eyes wide with astonishment at the sight that awaited him. A beggar, dressed in rags that had seen better days as dishcloths, grinned at him. Black gaps within the yellowed dentures sent a reeking smell towards the young Sirius and he stepped back. Knobbly knees and a cane marked the man's difficulty in walking and the long beard he wore was white and wispy, the few strands of it tangled and marred with dirt.
"What do you want?"
"Come here."
With no small bit of trepidation, the youth made his way towards the beggar. The moment he came within reach of those long, knobbly arms, the grasped him around his bicep, drawing the boy closer. Thin, twisted fingers rubbed dirt into his face, his hair, his clothes. Before Sirius even thought of squirming from the lunatic's grasp, a chipped cup was shoved into his hands and the man smiled toothily at him.
"Better. We'll do some adjustments later."
Sirius stared at him.
"Well, go on then. Start begging. People always give more money for the children."
He turned away, but remained nearby, beginning his screechy call once more.
"Pennies! Pennies for the poor! I've got a child to feed, but no money to feed him with!"
Several strangers passed by without a few second glance. One gave only a withered glance and a superior sniff before walking away, but a couple others dropped some coins into Sirius's cup. Bewildered, he stared into the depths at the grubby bits, but was jolted out of his wonder when the container was pulled from his hand and emptied into that of the beggar. Indignant, he protested, causing heads to turn.
"Hey! Those are mine!"
"Hush, boy! Want them to set the police on us!"
"You stole my pennies!"
"Be quiet! All right, all right, look. Tonight, I'll take you back with me and show you how to look more pitiful, you know, to get more money, eh? In exchange, you stay with me during the day so people will give us more money."
"Well, I s'ppose so."
"There's a good lad. Pennies for the poor!"
By the end of the day, not much money had been made, but the beggar smiled at their pitiful earnings all the same.
"Best lot I've had in years. You must be lucky, boy. Come with me."
He tottered away, quick enough that the youth had to scramble enough to keep up with him. Leading him through such a maze of streets that even the street wise boy was dizzy with turning, the beggar halted before an inn.
The Gambler's Dice, the sign said, and from the decrepit condition, it had been around for a long time. Being in the slums didn't help much either. As the two entered the kitchen through a side door, Sirius wrinkled his nose. Sour ale and sweat were the prevalent odors, but there were other, worse smells beneath their cover.
That night, by the fire, the beggar told him about begging. His name was Gerard, and he'd learned the art of begging from another beggar. Sirius was wide eyed by now. He hadn't even known there was an art to begging. He set about to learning it with great gusto.
* * *
The convict scowled. He remembered that portion of his life only vaguely, but he was still familiar with all the tricks. He remembered how to wrap his body tightly with bandages to make it look thinner, how to make his face pale or wan, how to make sours from flour, water, and henna, how to wrap an arm or a leg to make it look as if he were an amputee. It had been fine for a year or so, but after a while, Gerard had hinted that he was actually thinking about amputating one of Sirius's limbs, and the boy had given him the slip.
Not that any of those tricks helped him any more. It wasn't likely he'd ever be free of Azkaban to use that particular knowledge again.