Collared to Agony's Hands
I don't own Harry Potter, nor am I receiving a profit from this story.
A/n: It's been so long since I wrote Sirius angst…so I decided to try my hand at another short story.
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The rattling breath of my Dementor guard filters oh so slowly through the bars of my imprisonment, drawing bits of sanity from my head as it satisfies its lust. I try to wrap my ragged cloak closer around my skeletal frame but to no avail; nothing can truly obliterate the cold of Azkaban prison. The low moans of the tormented coast slowly through these hallowed stone walls, cries of pain, of torment. The pleading of the damned, those who can no longer hold on to life. The Dementors revel in it, it's the fuel that sustains them in this lightless hell. If they could voice their joy, it would never cease but continue into eternity, follow their prisoners to the grave itself. They glide silently around the corridors and gaze into your mind with sightless eyes, waiting to suck those few sustaining memories one may have. Slowly, I raise my clawed hand to the rough granite wall as I whisper hoarsely, "I am innocent, innocent…" The Dementors are particularly restless tonight. One has stopped outside my door and turned its face towards me. I'm shaking now—don't stop, can't stop—say it again. "Innocent, I didn't do it, no." My voice has reached a child's pitch while non-existent tears prickle in my eyes. I can no longer release my grief in that way; my tear ducts dried from over-work long ago. Back when the pain was still raw. Back when my cell in Azkaban was still unfamiliar, cold and gripping as I tried to come to terms with my wrongful imprisonment. Back when I saw the mangled bodies every time I happened to shut my eyes. It never ceased, but now I see nothing but the black of my despair. I have long since abandoned hope of ever exiting. But revenge still burns fully in my heart.
To live in Azkaban, one must learn to adapt. Most importantly, one must learn to ignore, because if you don't ignore, you see. And it's seeing that drives people insane. No one can wallow in depression for long without succumbing to its effects. The first year here drains you of life; the ones following drain you of mind. Of good memories, of past joys. How can one heal when forced to only see the bad? This is a fate worse than death, to sit on the concrete bed as you know that friends believe you a murderer, a betrayer. To relive again and again the sights that you had once strived so hard to eliminate from your head. They're always with you. They're always with me—the three I was supposed to protect. To fail so utterly and miserably, to lead them to their death, their child to a loveless life, this is why I deserve to be captured inside the unyielding pit of despondency. I played them into his hands but not in the way that they believe. And the rat is still out there, feasting somewhere, as bloated as a king, jubilant over his triumph. He is the one who sent me here, the one who sold so many lives to Voldemort for the pitiful price of protection. He forsook friendship and family for such a false sense of security, became a murderer for a mad-man. And what has come of it? The loss of the three things that tethered me to the joys of life. Not a day goes by that I don't yearn to kill him, to take his head in my hands and turn it so his cowardly vertebrae crack under the pressure of my complete rage. He does not have to suffer as I have; he feels only remorse for the Master he lost in the midst of his heinous acts against the foundation of the resistance he swore himself into.
The Dementor is losing interest—I have no fresh meat tonight. As it moves away to haunt another tormented soul, I close my eyes in exhaustion, the kind that never truly dissipates, and his image bursts clearly into my head as it usually does. Fat, round face shining with misguided fear…something horrible shifts into my stomach. Outside, I can hear the Dementor pause in morbid curiosity. Something else is stirring, something not associated with Wormtail. "No," I whisper, for I know what's coming, "please, no…" And I can see him; I can see his cherubic face gazing at me with innocence on a baby can possess. In my mind he raises his chubby arms to me, squealing, "Pah-fooh! Pah-fooh!" Already, the Dementor is pulling at it, desiring to hold my memory in its black inside, prizing the pain it causes as it rips it out of my head. These rare moments are all I have left of my godson, so many memories do these foul creatures contain within them. Damn them! They won't leave even my mind to me, my internal treasures. Always, always tearing at them, ripping unceasingly until I am a crumpled heap of flesh on the filthy floor. Like the piece of trash I have been deemed to be for being condemned to this place. It's the curse of an Azkaban inmate, the very deterrent to crime. With one last loud rattle of a breath, the image has been obliterated from my mind. Harry…. I stretch my hand in a futile attempt to recapture my memory, even as the Dementor roams away. He has still left thoughts of Harry to me… but they are its thoughts, marred with depression.
He was supposed to be my godson, my responsibility. Instead, he has been shunned to them, Lily's Muggle sister. The one who refused to come to "a freak's wedding." How could Dumbledore not see through Wormtail? How could he think that I would so willingly sell my best friend to death? For what? So long had I spent denying my family, how could he think I would go back that easily? James had always fully trusted Dumbledore; he had always seemed so omnipotent. I can no longer place any respect in his name. Harry's wellbeing had been entrusted to me, yet Dumbledore surpassed that boundary. He decided, post mortem, for Lily and James, come to a decision about the most valuable thing of theirs left. He did not trust me, sent me to Azkaban on his suspicions. And where is Harry now? Has he already been delivered to Voldemort so carelessly by the Muggles he has been sent to? How old is he, what does he look like now? Time does not pass in Azkaban—it is always dark. I can only superimpose myself in the past, never in the future. Can only speculate but never know for sure.
I am allowed no visitors in here, nor any letters, but who would write to me? If allowed, the lack would only dash my hopes further. I could not wish Lupin to come; he believes to have reason far beyond the rest to hate me now. Those who once trusted me were the ones rioting for my death when I was first sentenced; those who once hated me for abandoning my blood were gleeful at my downfall...
Oh, no. The Dementors are stirring. Stop, I think desperately, not today! It's no use as they grab at the air. Everything plunges into freezing oblivion; I can see my own breath frosting before my face. Voices have begun to sound in my head, quietly but steadily growing as though the Dementors are controlling a giant volume knob. I can hear screams, my own, from long ago. When my eyes close, I can see myself on the rubble in front... in front of him. I'm gasping raggedly for air now. Stretching my arm towards my best friend who's lying so untouched in the destruction of his house. This is the one thing I can never get used to, seeing this image whenever the Dementors want a larger feed. It's growing stronger…can't hold on much longer… can't….
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The Dementors are on good terms today—inspection. I don't know whose come, but the presence of him, fresh and untainted, is practically driving the Dementors insane with hunger. They're…wait, what's that? Boots falling heavily on the cobbled floor, coming this way. That's odd, most inspectors stay out of the high security ward. He's coming now… I can see him, clutching his bowler hat to his chest. Vaguely, I can place his face at the place of my arrest. He's pale, unused to the Dementors never-ceasing grip on these pain-wracked halls. In his right hand, he holds a newspaper. I feel a deep tugging in my stomach—why not ask him for it? I feel quite lucid now, after spending some time as a dog. Why not prove they cannot break me so easily. I stagger towards the bars, causing the two Dementors outside to turn towards me inquisitorially. He pauses, fearful, and I can feel a surge of laughter fighting to be released from my throat. Yet, I hold it down, and instead ask in a voice that's raspy with disuse, "Are you done with paper; I quite miss doing the crossword puzzle." He looks at me with disgusted alarm and without at word, tosses the dog-eared publication into my cell.
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End