Chapter IV : When In Hell
[ colloquial title : bring me to life ]
i now that I know what I'm without
you can't just leave me
breathe into me and make me real
bring me
to life /i
He could feel himself rotting.
Everything rotted in Azkaban. Everything dripped from it's own bones like flesh gone liquid. That was what his soul was doing, now; melting away from his brain and his heart in dark, acrid rivulets and pooling in his stomach as something sour, violent, wrathful. He did not transfigure. Sirius the Man knew how to Hate, and Hate would keep him alive in this place. The Dementors could feed off of your love, but they could not digest hatred.
He did not love Harry, for now. He let everything the boy meant to him decay into nothing but a liquid pool of emotional energy inside of him - and then he lit a fire beneath it, and boiled it into the hatred he needed to scald those that had done this. The screams of the other prisoners were fuel for this fire, the bitter cold and pitch black of the prison spices for the brew. He could feed of all of it, now, and turn it into something that could keep him alive in this place that oozed Death from it's very walls. He had spent twelve long years perfecting this strange and horrid alchemy of the soul. Once already it had served him well. Once already it had carried him, day by lightless day, through the darkness of his incarceration.
He could do it again.
Clang of steel against steel. Somewhere a barred door opened and closed. The cell bars in Azkaban were wrought with spikes to keep the prisoners from rattling them - like thick metal rose stems top to bottom. Sirius had never touched them, never once. He would not feed the Dementors with hope. When in Hell, do as the demons do.
Footsteps. People. Three types of people walked in Azkaban - new prisoners, morticians, and Ministry Officials. New prisoners screamed on their way in. Morticians whispered amongst themselves in cold, clinical terminology, ignoring the dripping, reeking, rotting place around them. But the Ministry Officials had the habit of walking as fast as they could through the dungeon hallways, biting their tongues and swallowing their horror for the sake of remaining pompous [or so Sirius saw it]. No screaming. No idle chatter. Ministry footsteps, he would have bet his wand.
"Mr. Black...?"
A bitter smile curled at the corners of his lips, but he didn't turn around. He didn't know the voice. Let them come to him. Let them screw up the guts to walk between the Dementors posted outside his doors and come right into this cramped little dungeon with him. Let them do it, if they wanted to.
He could feel the unfamiliar soul shudder as it passed through his less-than-humble doorway. He could feel the Dementors take a deep breath, swallow the new happiness whole. i That's right, you bastards. Suck it up from them, too. /i A shuddering breath, somewhere behind his left shoulder, and the shifting of feet on the moldering stone floor.
"Mr Black?" the voice came again, weaker this time. Hell strains even the staunchest English manners.
"You were expecting Cleopatra, perhaps?"
"My name is Jonathan Dove. I'm a lawyer. The Ministry-"
"Sent you to represent me. Well I hope you aren't fresh out of law school, Mr. Dove. You will be representing the most hated man in all of magical Britain. You will have an easier time of it should you choose to try and win the affections of a Manticore. And if you lose this case, I will kill you."
Numb silence behind him. Sirius Black turned around, and looked Jonathan Dove straight in the eyes.
He was almost half a head shorter than the six-foot Sirius, and very slender, with androgynous features and very blue eyes and dark auburn hair that would have hung to his chin, had it not been slicked back to his head professionally. He wore a fine, double-breasted muggle suit of black silk beneath his dark woolen cape, complete with starched white linen shirt and dark tie. A pair of square, black framed glasses rested low on his nose. Head-to-toe professional. He was looking up at Sirius with an expression somewhere between polite and wary.
"You can leave now, if you want to," Sirius told him.
"Mr Black," said Dove, in a smooth, cultured tone, "I wouldn't dream of it. If I walk out of here today, you are a dead man. No one else in Europe could clear your name at this point." Those blue eyes flashed sharply behind the glasses, and he offered Sirius a most charming and confident smile. "I'm not as young as I look, either. So please - set your apprehensions aside. Your trial date has been set for one month from today. We don't have time to waste on a pissing contest right now, if you'll excuse my saying so, so I suggest we get to work."
It took Sirius by surprise, this iron yet easy manner. Cause for reevaluation of the entire situation, indeed. He stood watching Dove in the thin shaft of light cast by the hall torch across the dark and reeking cell. For a moment, neither man moved.
"You can't save us…"
"Oh, but I can," said Dove. "I can save both of you, Mr. Black." Sparkling blue eyes in the dim torchlight. Sparkling blue eyes behind square framed glasses. Where had he seen those eyes before? "If I don't, you can kill me. How's that?"
"Don't play with me.."
"I don't play. You can have your wand. I'll have a legal document drawn up, if you wish. What's important right now is that you realize that you will win this case. I'll stake my life on it. But I can't help you unless you help me, you understand?"
Another moment of silence, as thick and damp and heavy as the air inside Azkaban. From far down the corridor came a moan, and scream, a sob. Hissing, rattling breath of the Dementors as they passed. Sirius nodded Dove's attention to them.
"You see those two? They know one's dying. They can feel it. They don't just let you die in this place. They don't just let you curl in on yourself and wither away. When they feel you start to go? They come flocking. They breathe up your death. Sometimes they don't wait for you to go on your own, either. If you cling to happy memories in those last moments? They can't resist it. They suck your soul right out of your dying body, and they swallow it whole. They let your corpse rot in the cell, sometimes, if you tasted good enough."
Dove didn't flinch, didn't waver, didn't cringe from the sickness of it. He stood pristine in the sputtering flare of the torchlight, and he let Sirius bear down on him with his eyes, drill into him. He held his gaze steady. And then he said;
"You would taste like shit to a Dementor. So would I. We hate too much."
"… You'd better not fuck up."
"I never have. I'm not going to start now. Mistakes are for people who learn slowly. Now sit down, Mr Black. We've got a lot of ground to cover."
"Call me Sirius."
Dove paused before lowering himself onto the cold stone bench, extended one slender hand. "Jonathan."
This man was his only hope, now. Sirius shook it. "What do you need me to tell you?"
They sat down, side by side, and only now did Jonathan reach for the black leather briefcase that had been sitting against the cell door since his arrival. Snapping it open in his lap, he leafed through the papers inside it, pulling out one official scroll after the next until he found what he was looking for. He held up a copy of the same cursed letter that had arrived on Sirius's doorstep not one week prior. "I trust you've read the charges?"
"The summons came by owl post to my house. I've read it."
"Are the charges valid?" The directness of the question nearly surprised Sirius.
"It's not rape, if that's what you're talking about."
"But you two are lovers."
"We are." It took a monumental amount of willpower to speak of Harry without *feeling* Harry, without remembering in a way that the Dementors would find all too appealing. Sirius liked that his voice sounded dispassionate in his own ears. i You will never feed of that, you sons of bitches. I'll never give you Harry, you can be sure of it. /i
"How did this come about?"
"It's hard to explain…."
"You're going to have to try, Sirius. I need to know everything."
Sirius took a deep breath, rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his temples, steeling himself for the long, grueling task that lay ahead, of telling the entire tale.
"You see… he has these nightmares…"
* * *
"… and everything was completely stable, until we got the summons."
Two daunting hours later, everything that there was to tell had been told. Now Jonathan knew how Lily and James had entrusted him to do "whatever it takes" to take care of Harry, how the boy had come to him crying in the middle of the night, begging to sleep beside him, how it had been Harry who'd initiated the romance in the relationship… how, no, he didn't think about the age difference.
"He may be sixteen, Jonathan, but in many ways he isn't the child that he looks to be. In other ways, he'll never be more than that. He didn't know what love was at all until he was well into adolescence, and when he figured it out, he didn't draw any barriers through it. To Harry, Love is Love. I love him. I take care of him. He had his innocence stolen away far, far too young. He needed something to fill that void where they tore it out of him. And if that's what it takes for him to finally find a little peace in this world, then who am I to deny him? I won't lie and say that I don't desire him. It's not a selfless relationship. But do you understand what I'm telling you, Jonathan? Maybe with any other sixteen year old boy - yes, this would be entirely improper. But Harry's something altogether different."
A fragile silence stretched between the two men, then; thin as paper, while one reflected and the other waited patiently. And then Jonathan said;
"I understand, Sirius. I understand all too well." Flash of blue eyes in the meager torch light. "They've done you both a horrid injustice here - they really have." A brief pause, and then, "I'm going to need to speak with Harry, and well, to get his testimony. But trust me, Sirius. You'll have him back."
"I really will kill you, if you fuck up, Jonathan."
Jonathan Dove smiled quietly, and rose from the stone bench. "I know you will," he said. "If I doubted you, or myself, I wouldn't still be here. But you've told me the truth, all of it, and I can promise you that I won't let that go to waste. I have everything that I need, for now. I'll be back within the week, once I've spoken with Harry.
And then he left Sirius alone, for he time being, in Hell. And when in Hell, do as the demons do.
- to be continued -
[ colloquial title : bring me to life ]
i now that I know what I'm without
you can't just leave me
breathe into me and make me real
bring me
to life /i
He could feel himself rotting.
Everything rotted in Azkaban. Everything dripped from it's own bones like flesh gone liquid. That was what his soul was doing, now; melting away from his brain and his heart in dark, acrid rivulets and pooling in his stomach as something sour, violent, wrathful. He did not transfigure. Sirius the Man knew how to Hate, and Hate would keep him alive in this place. The Dementors could feed off of your love, but they could not digest hatred.
He did not love Harry, for now. He let everything the boy meant to him decay into nothing but a liquid pool of emotional energy inside of him - and then he lit a fire beneath it, and boiled it into the hatred he needed to scald those that had done this. The screams of the other prisoners were fuel for this fire, the bitter cold and pitch black of the prison spices for the brew. He could feed of all of it, now, and turn it into something that could keep him alive in this place that oozed Death from it's very walls. He had spent twelve long years perfecting this strange and horrid alchemy of the soul. Once already it had served him well. Once already it had carried him, day by lightless day, through the darkness of his incarceration.
He could do it again.
Clang of steel against steel. Somewhere a barred door opened and closed. The cell bars in Azkaban were wrought with spikes to keep the prisoners from rattling them - like thick metal rose stems top to bottom. Sirius had never touched them, never once. He would not feed the Dementors with hope. When in Hell, do as the demons do.
Footsteps. People. Three types of people walked in Azkaban - new prisoners, morticians, and Ministry Officials. New prisoners screamed on their way in. Morticians whispered amongst themselves in cold, clinical terminology, ignoring the dripping, reeking, rotting place around them. But the Ministry Officials had the habit of walking as fast as they could through the dungeon hallways, biting their tongues and swallowing their horror for the sake of remaining pompous [or so Sirius saw it]. No screaming. No idle chatter. Ministry footsteps, he would have bet his wand.
"Mr. Black...?"
A bitter smile curled at the corners of his lips, but he didn't turn around. He didn't know the voice. Let them come to him. Let them screw up the guts to walk between the Dementors posted outside his doors and come right into this cramped little dungeon with him. Let them do it, if they wanted to.
He could feel the unfamiliar soul shudder as it passed through his less-than-humble doorway. He could feel the Dementors take a deep breath, swallow the new happiness whole. i That's right, you bastards. Suck it up from them, too. /i A shuddering breath, somewhere behind his left shoulder, and the shifting of feet on the moldering stone floor.
"Mr Black?" the voice came again, weaker this time. Hell strains even the staunchest English manners.
"You were expecting Cleopatra, perhaps?"
"My name is Jonathan Dove. I'm a lawyer. The Ministry-"
"Sent you to represent me. Well I hope you aren't fresh out of law school, Mr. Dove. You will be representing the most hated man in all of magical Britain. You will have an easier time of it should you choose to try and win the affections of a Manticore. And if you lose this case, I will kill you."
Numb silence behind him. Sirius Black turned around, and looked Jonathan Dove straight in the eyes.
He was almost half a head shorter than the six-foot Sirius, and very slender, with androgynous features and very blue eyes and dark auburn hair that would have hung to his chin, had it not been slicked back to his head professionally. He wore a fine, double-breasted muggle suit of black silk beneath his dark woolen cape, complete with starched white linen shirt and dark tie. A pair of square, black framed glasses rested low on his nose. Head-to-toe professional. He was looking up at Sirius with an expression somewhere between polite and wary.
"You can leave now, if you want to," Sirius told him.
"Mr Black," said Dove, in a smooth, cultured tone, "I wouldn't dream of it. If I walk out of here today, you are a dead man. No one else in Europe could clear your name at this point." Those blue eyes flashed sharply behind the glasses, and he offered Sirius a most charming and confident smile. "I'm not as young as I look, either. So please - set your apprehensions aside. Your trial date has been set for one month from today. We don't have time to waste on a pissing contest right now, if you'll excuse my saying so, so I suggest we get to work."
It took Sirius by surprise, this iron yet easy manner. Cause for reevaluation of the entire situation, indeed. He stood watching Dove in the thin shaft of light cast by the hall torch across the dark and reeking cell. For a moment, neither man moved.
"You can't save us…"
"Oh, but I can," said Dove. "I can save both of you, Mr. Black." Sparkling blue eyes in the dim torchlight. Sparkling blue eyes behind square framed glasses. Where had he seen those eyes before? "If I don't, you can kill me. How's that?"
"Don't play with me.."
"I don't play. You can have your wand. I'll have a legal document drawn up, if you wish. What's important right now is that you realize that you will win this case. I'll stake my life on it. But I can't help you unless you help me, you understand?"
Another moment of silence, as thick and damp and heavy as the air inside Azkaban. From far down the corridor came a moan, and scream, a sob. Hissing, rattling breath of the Dementors as they passed. Sirius nodded Dove's attention to them.
"You see those two? They know one's dying. They can feel it. They don't just let you die in this place. They don't just let you curl in on yourself and wither away. When they feel you start to go? They come flocking. They breathe up your death. Sometimes they don't wait for you to go on your own, either. If you cling to happy memories in those last moments? They can't resist it. They suck your soul right out of your dying body, and they swallow it whole. They let your corpse rot in the cell, sometimes, if you tasted good enough."
Dove didn't flinch, didn't waver, didn't cringe from the sickness of it. He stood pristine in the sputtering flare of the torchlight, and he let Sirius bear down on him with his eyes, drill into him. He held his gaze steady. And then he said;
"You would taste like shit to a Dementor. So would I. We hate too much."
"… You'd better not fuck up."
"I never have. I'm not going to start now. Mistakes are for people who learn slowly. Now sit down, Mr Black. We've got a lot of ground to cover."
"Call me Sirius."
Dove paused before lowering himself onto the cold stone bench, extended one slender hand. "Jonathan."
This man was his only hope, now. Sirius shook it. "What do you need me to tell you?"
They sat down, side by side, and only now did Jonathan reach for the black leather briefcase that had been sitting against the cell door since his arrival. Snapping it open in his lap, he leafed through the papers inside it, pulling out one official scroll after the next until he found what he was looking for. He held up a copy of the same cursed letter that had arrived on Sirius's doorstep not one week prior. "I trust you've read the charges?"
"The summons came by owl post to my house. I've read it."
"Are the charges valid?" The directness of the question nearly surprised Sirius.
"It's not rape, if that's what you're talking about."
"But you two are lovers."
"We are." It took a monumental amount of willpower to speak of Harry without *feeling* Harry, without remembering in a way that the Dementors would find all too appealing. Sirius liked that his voice sounded dispassionate in his own ears. i You will never feed of that, you sons of bitches. I'll never give you Harry, you can be sure of it. /i
"How did this come about?"
"It's hard to explain…."
"You're going to have to try, Sirius. I need to know everything."
Sirius took a deep breath, rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his temples, steeling himself for the long, grueling task that lay ahead, of telling the entire tale.
"You see… he has these nightmares…"
* * *
"… and everything was completely stable, until we got the summons."
Two daunting hours later, everything that there was to tell had been told. Now Jonathan knew how Lily and James had entrusted him to do "whatever it takes" to take care of Harry, how the boy had come to him crying in the middle of the night, begging to sleep beside him, how it had been Harry who'd initiated the romance in the relationship… how, no, he didn't think about the age difference.
"He may be sixteen, Jonathan, but in many ways he isn't the child that he looks to be. In other ways, he'll never be more than that. He didn't know what love was at all until he was well into adolescence, and when he figured it out, he didn't draw any barriers through it. To Harry, Love is Love. I love him. I take care of him. He had his innocence stolen away far, far too young. He needed something to fill that void where they tore it out of him. And if that's what it takes for him to finally find a little peace in this world, then who am I to deny him? I won't lie and say that I don't desire him. It's not a selfless relationship. But do you understand what I'm telling you, Jonathan? Maybe with any other sixteen year old boy - yes, this would be entirely improper. But Harry's something altogether different."
A fragile silence stretched between the two men, then; thin as paper, while one reflected and the other waited patiently. And then Jonathan said;
"I understand, Sirius. I understand all too well." Flash of blue eyes in the meager torch light. "They've done you both a horrid injustice here - they really have." A brief pause, and then, "I'm going to need to speak with Harry, and well, to get his testimony. But trust me, Sirius. You'll have him back."
"I really will kill you, if you fuck up, Jonathan."
Jonathan Dove smiled quietly, and rose from the stone bench. "I know you will," he said. "If I doubted you, or myself, I wouldn't still be here. But you've told me the truth, all of it, and I can promise you that I won't let that go to waste. I have everything that I need, for now. I'll be back within the week, once I've spoken with Harry.
And then he left Sirius alone, for he time being, in Hell. And when in Hell, do as the demons do.
- to be continued -