Disclaimer: Don't own Sirius. Love him to death, though. He is very yummy. And so cute! But, alas, he, like everyone else, belongs to JK Rowling in all her evil, whorish glory.
Enjoy. Or else.
Lifeless, sunken eyes surveyed the dank room without interest. Nothing had changed since the night before, and nothing would change in the days hence. It was all so hopeless.
Time meant nothing where the waxy faced man lay, unmoving. Meals were pushed into his room at regular intervals, but he ate very little. Took no relish in eating. Why bother when he was going to die anyway?
His face spoke stormy volumes, though none was there to read them. No one visited him. He did not blame them. He was a murderer, a foul being, unworthy of their company. He deserved nothing.
But he desired so much. And why should he not? It was man's nature to want what he could not have. And what he longed for was impossible to obtain. He reached out a spindly arm into the dank air, fingers extended, clutching at what was not there. What would never again be there.
For an instant, a pale face shone in the sliver of moonlight that poured in the high window of the cell. And for that split second, his heart rejoiced in seeing it. Perhaps that face was really there, smiling down upon him.
A sudden shiver coursed through him, and he winced. One more pleasant thought for them to wrench away from him. And he without ability to defend himself. Oh, how he wished someone were there to protect him. To save him.
He blinked, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. But he would not cry; had not cried since that day. The day they tore his world apart. The day he had seen those perfect, golden moons narrow in hatred and shock. At what he had done.
But he hadn't done it. He knew that much, at least. It appeared no one else did, however. Even the one person he had thought would see through it all. Would realize that he had been framed. That he was innocent. Even they hated him now.
And it killed him.
A truly ghastly thing it was, to think, to remember. To know. Yes. He hated knowing. Knowing that he was the only man on the face of the Earth that knew he was innocent.
Correction. Two men knew he was innocent. That treacherous, revolting, rat knew.
Peter. The named echoed in the caverns of his mind like a silently uttered curse. How he grew to hate that name. For it stirred up so many emotions. So much rage. Because it was truly all. His. Fault.
Peter was the reason he had been thrown in this God-forsaken place. Peter was the reason that two of his very best friends were dead. Peter was the reason that his only living friend hated him. Peterpeterpeterpeter.
He wanted to scream. Wanted to walk up one side of him and down the other. Wanted to rip the Dark Mark off that scoundrel's arm with his bare hands. Or perhaps his teeth. Yes… that sounded appealing. Biting a chunk of foul skin right out of the little, balding man's arm.
But it was all in vain, whispered their omnipresent voices in the silence, flowing sinuously, caressingly in the darkness. For there is nothing you can do. They taunted him, and they laughed. High, screeching, wretched giggles that drove him to the brink of insanity.
But the visions of those golden moons always dragged him back, coughing and spluttering, to his senses. And for that, he was eternally grateful.
Intentions of continuing this as a sort of collection of dabblings about Sirius' time in Azkaban. Let me know if I should bother to continue.