The Devil's Own
by a true Elsewhere

I:

Sometimes at night, he could see their bodies, dead, mangled, ashen on the floor. James sprawled across the coffee table, Lily underneath the doorframe, Harry a ragged heap in his crib, with a trail of tears dried on his face…

Sometimes at night, when things were dark and demons from deep within him escaped their carefully kept cage, he could hear their screams, their cries. He could hear the way they begged for one another, their ragged agonized whimpers as death claimed each of them, one by one…

He recalled the way he was placed under scrutiny that night. His inability to clearly say that it hadn't been his fault and that he didn't betray his friends and godson had resulted in him being imprisoned. But it really was his fault, he knew that and that was why he could not deny their accusations when they questioned his loyalties. Although he was not the one that betrayed their trust, he was the one that convinced them to give entrust their lives to someone that would. His brilliant idea had ended up in everything going wrong.

"Paddy, Paddy," a childish voice would say, hugging him tightly with his small arms.

He wanted- no, he corrected himself- he needed revenge. His attempt to get revenge on Peter, his would-be bastard of a friend turned out half-assed and resulting in no fulfillment. But still, everything in him pulsed with this need that could not be sated in any way but true revenge. He no longer lived; he no longer could live, for living held no true importance in life except for this revenge. That's why he was kept alive, that was why he would do anything to obtain it! Even sell his soul to the devil!

And, when the war was over and Voldemort reigned supreme over all else that was Light, he sold his soul to the devil and bore the Dark Mark to prove it.

***

Sunlight didn't make it into his cell.

Everything was dark and dreary… There was nothing to help distinguish the changing of days, the passing of nights, and the presence of light…

The air around him was cold and damp from the sea breeze that would enter the prison. Its chilly breath made his bones ache at night and the makeshift blanket was scratchy against his skin. He spent most of his days lying underneath it, on the stiff bed, as his nightmares played in his mind over again with the passing of the dark cloaked Dementors that roamed freely about the prison.

His mind drifted off.

Harry in his crib, his inherited emerald green eyes wide open and completely lifeless, his tiny mouth parted in the middle of a scream…

There was a clatter of keys that pulled him away from his thoughts. The noise was loud and discordant, far different from the agonized screams that would sometimes ring out of his fellow inmates and, on more than one occasion, himself. He looked up at the person at the door and attempted to remember whom he was. He knew that face, the greasy hair, the dark eyes…

Severus Snape stared at him in distaste, his eyes staring down at him with a scathing look. But, being an inmate at Azkaban, meant that he did not give a fuck about him. Instead, he just stared back about the man, equally un-amused by the presence of the other.

"The war is over," the one contracted to Voldemort said simply. "The Dark Lord has won. He took the ministry last week. Two days ago he took Britain."

"And…?" Sirius asked, already expecting as much. It had been weeks since another person had been imprisoned in this hellhole. The new ones always were the ones that screamed. Not to mention the fact that he had noticed the declined numbers of Dementors that remained in the prison. They probably left to align themselves with Voldemort.

"He's letting all the prisoners go. Even you. But he has asked me to ask you something first. He wants me to ask you to join his side. The war may be over but it will still be a while until everything dies down."

For the first time, since Severus Snape had showed up in this prison and announced his newfound freedom, he reacted. Something inside of him burst out angrily, lashing out at the mere prospect of Severus' suggestion. Asking him to join Voldemort, the man who personally killed his best friends as well as his godson!

Before Sirius could actively show his displeasure (strangely enough, the anger made him feel far stronger than he ever was since his imprisonment), Severus spoke up. "I'm a spy."

That strange comment had prevented Sirius from beating the git up to a pulp.

"I'm a spy for the Light side. I've been asked by Dumbledore to ask you if you could possible help the Light's mission by becoming a spy. It's rather cruel, but…" Severus paused for a moment, thoughtful. "It may be your only chance to getting revenge."

"Why?" Sirius asked, voice raspy, "Why are you telling me this? Why are you acting so fucking nice? You hate me."

Severus laughed; it was harsh and bitter sounding, as if he hadn't done so for a while, "Yes, I hate you. But… there are others things that I hate far more than you."

Harry dead, a limp body, cold underneath his fingertips…

Sirius understood.

***

Sirius liked to compare the branding of the Dark Mark on his arm to the branding of cattle by muggle ranchers. Lily had described the scene to him once before, in the midst of a discussion they had about paper gone astray. Lily told him how the ranchers would imprint their cattle so that others could not steal them away. It was a method of showing their ownership of the slow-witted animals. They would, she described, take a hot, cast iron rod with their brand at the end of it, heat it up in scorching hot fire, and then take the rod and press it against the beast's hide. The cells would then die beneath the heat, burning the skin and meat until the only thing that was left was a mark.

The Dark Mark was the same, only there was no cast iron instrument that was used and pressed against his arm. There was instead a wand, long and dark, brushing against his skin in a slow, intricate manner. He could see the dark pattern that started to form from the trail the wand was making, slowly twisting and turning with every curve and detail. He could feel his mind being tugged at, his magic being thrown into disarray by every stroke of the wand against him. He felt exposed, struggling with himself as the final stroke was placed upon his skin and the mark dropped down into his skin, burning him.

It was then did he realize what it truly meant to be marked.

***

Sometimes, in the midst of the night, his marked burned his hand, eating away flesh and blood until he was rotting beneath its touch. Demons danced in the shadows of the room, laughing wickedly at him, making him wonder if he was still alive.

"Paddy, Paddy," a childish voice would say, hugging him tightly with his small arms. "Love Paddy…"

It was then he remembered why.

***

Thank you Drae, for editing... I know how hard that is...

Ahh, Sirius angst, always so fun...