Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I don't own Sirius. I don't even own Azkaban.

Murderer

It was dark.

Most people would have taken that as a given- it was dark in Azkaban. But somehow, the reality of never-ending darkness came as a surprise. What little light there was was overshadowed by the presence of the dementors, who blotted out warmth and light and life until he thought he'd die of the cold. And it was dark.

He spent a lot of time pacing. He'd always had that sort of manic energy, driving him forward and onwards, sending him laughing and dancing through life, smiling and fighting. It had been such an integral part of him, that energy, that even the overwhelming darkness could not suppress it. Some prisoner's huddled in corners and wailed- he paced. Like an animal in a zoo. He wasn't even aware of it, most the time.

Memories were elusive in Azkaban. No, that wasn't true- he had relived the same five scenes or so over and over in his mind until he was sure they'd be etched there forever. But if asked to recall the color of his brothers eyes, he'd draw a blank. Sometimes, he focused all of his energy, all of that restlessness, on remembering something. Some scene from the past, some feeling. He tried to recall who he had loved, and what that felt like.

It was exhausting. He didn't do it very often. It never really worked, anyway. He knew enough to know that Prongs was dead, and he had loved Prongs. That he hated Wormtail. That Lily was gone, and he missed her. That there had been someone else, too- on his more lucid days, he knew that this someone else' was Remus, Moony, his wolf. Normally, however, this fact escaped him.

It was dark in Azkaban. He shifted his form ever now and then, curling up in the dark as a huge black dog. He thought he might be a grim- would any who looked at him, die? Die like Lily and James, burning and falling, eyes glazed and wide. He had no memories of them alive, but their faces in death were etched onto his mind. In the darkness of his cell, the only light provided came from memories. The flames of his best friends house, the harsh lighting of his room as he screamed at his mother. Moony screaming as his body shifted into a mindless animal. The sunlight streaming down on his face as he laughed amid the wreckage of his life. James telling him that he was a juvenile, infantile, murderer. Murderer.

He wondered, when he had the time, what that last memory was about. Prongs had been young, maybe sixteen, and he thought that they might have been the same age. He had been a murderer so young, then? I'm sorry, James. He hadn't meant to kill anyone- maybe Peter, but not James, not Lily, not Prongs- Murderer. He howled in his cell.

He wasn't the only one crying. The darkness was punctuated by periodic screams, by groans and moans and pleas. Some prisoners chanted, some begged, some simply wept. There was no hope in Azkaban. They were doomed, all of them, and he couldn't help but feel an odd stab of satisfaction. They screamed around him as he howled, voices rising in despair. The dementors said nothing, did nothing. Someone laughed.

On his better days, when the dementors were patrolling the other side of the prison, he recognized the voice three cells down, pleading with her Master' as his cousin. He hated his family- he knew that, even if he couldn't quite remember why. He called out to her, every now again, screaming Bellatrix!' As if she could answer. As if she would. Growling and barking like the animal he was. Murderer.

It was dark in Azkaban. Memories disappeared, to be replaced by nightmares. People screamed. He laughed. He growled. He howled. And he lived on, unchanging, in the never-ending night.

Murderer.