He laid on his back, a thin strip of material the sole thing between himself and the cold, concrete floor. The inevitable smell of mold lingered in his nostrils; the foul taste of the dementors' presence still in his mouth.

Faintly, "How did I end up here?" flickered across his mind, but he banished it immediately. It was useless to ask.

Another futile tear trickled down his pallid cheek. He remembered, so very clearly, what he wished with so much fervor to forget. He had been too late. One second too late.

And that had been his fault. No amount of cursing the rat that had betrayed his friends could change the fact that he was just too slow. His thoughts had been too cumbersome, too languid, too full of other things.

In those days, he had burst with pride for his green-eyed godson; he had seethed with love for his golden-eyed companion. Not once had his eyes twitched with suspicion for his rodent-like "friend." And it should have.

A day late and a dollar short, rang an old Muggle adage in his thoughts. The cold tightened about him, as if it were a physical entity. Somehow, it seemed that was the story of his life. Never quite right.

Certainly, he had been successful in some things. There was a time when he had never failed to earn a friend, a date, or a detention. But, those days were long gone, he reminded himself with a note of resignation.

His skin crawled with unrelieved anxiety, and a shiver traveled up his spine. He felt hopeless. It was the dementors, he knew, lingering just outside his cell. But he didn't feel up to resisting. Not today.

He smiled bleakly at the wall, stormy eyes slowly going out of focus. He welcomed the madness he knew would come, wondering how long it would take. He hoped it would be quick. His eyes slipped shut, and he involuntarily shivered. He drew in a deep breath, calming his nerves for what was next.

"Sirius?" It was Remus. The blood had drained from his scarred face, and he looked almost as if he'd been Petrified. His eyes had dropped to a dull brown, and he narrowed them suspiciously at Sirius.

"Moony!" Sirius cried, relieved to see a friendly face in such a dismal location. Perhaps he had good news. Perhaps he'd brought word from Dumbledore that the Order was working to have him released.

The door slid shut behind the werewolf, and he crossed the room slowly, at first, tentatively. He did not look at his friend, keeping his gaze fixed upon the floor. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his shabby robes, ambling over to Sirius before finally turning his head up to look at him.

Sirius' heart turned cold. He was no longer looking into the eyes of his best friend. No. Those golden eyes stared not back into his. The dull brown eyes were not those of Remus Lupin. They could not be.

But they were.

"I don't know what's happened to you, Sirius," Remus whispered, his face inches from the convict's. His expression was reproachful, but a tone of regret sounded in his soft voice. Slowly, the werewolf shook his head, and turned away. "Goodbye, Sirius," he muttered, heading out of the dreary little room.

The door slammed shut. "Moony!" Sirius cried, begging his friend to come back, not to leave him there. But it was useless.

A howl from somewhere outside shook Sirius from his stupor. He wasn't cold any longer. His fingers were red and pricked with frost, but he didn't feel cold. His brow furrowed in disbelief. He had just relieved one of the single worst moments of his life – the moment at which he had lost the last thing he had ever loved – and he had suddenly snapped out of it.

What was wrong with him? He was more than willing to submit to the dementors. He wanted them to take over his mind, to stop him from wanting the happiness he couldn't have. What was stopping them?

He wanted to scream. Nothing would ever happen the way he wanted it to. He wouldn't be released, wouldn't reap his revenge, wouldn't see his love ever again. No. This was his destiny. His punishment. His Hell.

Sirius Black was going to sit and rot in Azkaban with only the memory of his friends to keep him clinging to life. His destiny was eternal torture, and there was no escaping it.

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Poor Siri. Oh well. Twelve years in Azkaban at least gives me something to write about. Shall I continue?