Sorry this update took a while. I've been a bit busy and keep getting distracted by another fanfiction I started. (I'll post it after I've finished this one.)

Don't worry about it CitrusPeach, I don't know much about America. That page came up blank. Thanks for the address though. Yea, Indian food is nice!

I have tried make this chapter longer EsScaper. It's still a little short though.

I'm glad you liked it hopgoblin!

Eimear if you're reading this please don't freak out and not like me anymore cause I enjoy being friends with you. I know this is weird stuff to have going on in my head but it's not like it's hurting anyone. Also I know this story isn't very good and I'm probably just projecting my own problems onto the characters when I have them cutting and all but the original stuff I write is usually better.

August 2nd.

Hogwarts.

"You're a worthless pile of shit! You're nothing! You're disgusting!" Fists and feet pounded against the flesh of his limbs and back as he lay in fetal position on the ground. His father continued to beat him unceasingly. Serverus struggled not to cry out as his jaw bone splintered. A tiny child soaked in his own blood, lying in a pool of it. "You're a whore and a sissy!" the voice screamed. A hand grabbed him by the hair. "Get up! Get up this instant!" With a sudden rush of dizziness he felt himself being pulled to his feet.

Without warning he found himself in the middle of a dark forest. Beside him, instead of his father, stood Lord Voldermort, smiling happily as his deatheaters ripped muggles limb from limb. Severed heads continued screaming long after they should have died.

'Wait! This isn't right! I wasn't here, not this young. It's a dream! You're asleep! Wake up! Wake up! You're dreaming!'

It started to rain blood, staining the whole world red, as Snape fought to open his eyes.

Voldermort grabbed his arm and a fresh brand burned him to the bone.

'It's not real! It's not real!'

His hands clenched into fists, his nails cutting into his palms. He became aware of the chair on which he was sitting and the dark room around it. All the candles had gone out. He stood up quickly, before he could fall back into dreams. He was having difficulty steadying his breathing. Wiping his bloodied hands on his robes he crossed the room. He took a small blue vial down from one of the many shelves. Shouldn't have fallen asleep. That would not happen again tonight. He wouldn't permit his body to betray him. Grimacing he swallowed a mouthful of the bitter liquid.

He paced back and forth. He wanted to get out of this room. He felt uneasy. His eyes were darting from one corner to the next. It occurred to him that he'd made the potion too strong. Still, it was better than the alternative.

Without having consciously decided to do so he found himself walking through the corridors. All the portraits were asleep. He was glad of it, even more glad that there were no students around to disturb him. He wanted to be alone. Especially at times like this. It was no one's business but his own if he didn't sleep. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides because they wouldn't stop shaking. But he could handle it himself. He didn't need interfering busybodies sticking their nose in where it wasn't wanted. He just needed to be by himself. So why had his feet carried him to the hospital wing again? This was getting ridiculous. Still, he found himself stepping inside.

Good, Sirus seemed to be asleep. It wasn't like he had anything to say to him. He hovered for a few moments near the door before going to sit on one of the beds. It was then that he noticed Sirus' eyes were open, not only open but wide and frightened.

"Black are you awake? Can you hear me? Black?"

He stood on the windswept rock that was Azkaban. He shivered in the unnatural cold. He wasn't laughing anymore. The reality of the situation was only now sinking in. James and Lilly were dead. It was his fault. How could he have ever thought Remus was the traitor? They'd paid for his mistake. He was going to pay for it too.

'But that's what I deserve.'

The shackles around his wrists felt like heavy blocks of ice. The Auror beside him directed him towards the crumbling stone castle. Too tired to scream and struggle and protest his innocence as he had done when they took his photograph, he entered the castle.

It was even colder inside. His breath formed little clouds on the air. He knew there were dementors nearby. Their presence was like a blanket of despair. He saw one at the end of a corridor, as they passed cells of deatheaters who mocked and jeered him - knowing he'd never been one of them. Instantly his vision seemed to swim. He felt his legs collapse.

He was four years old. His parents were laughing. He was lying on the floor, blood pouring from his nose, unable to get up from the jelly legs jinx they'd cast.

'Why did you hate me? What did I do wrong?'

And they laughed and laughed and laughed, as though it was the funniest thing in the world.

Then gloved hands were grabbing at him, pushing him down against the floor of the cell. Their touch hurt worse than anything else they could do. Their touch made him want to die.

But all that belonged in the past. His friends had helped him put it there. He remembered that as the dementor moved on. He also remembered that his friends were dead, or traitors, or thought him to be. He realized that he was in a heap on the ground. The Auror was looking down at him, seemed amused.

"Get a move on!"

He climbed to his feet, continued down the corridor. They reached an empty cell. The Auror unlocked it and gestured for Sirus to enter. A cold, empty room with one small glassless window.

'This is where I live from now on.'

The Auror entered the cell after him. Sirus couldn't understand why. Then his guard took out a wand. He spoke an incantation and suddenly the chains around the animagus' wrists split in half and started to grow longer. An unexpected shove knocked him to the ground. The chains slithered like snakes along the stones before finally fixing themselves in position with heavy bolts.

"Our Lord may be vanquished but your precious Dumbeldore didn't catch all of us!"

Stepping forwards he kicked him hard in the side. Then, a second latter, in the arm, right at the bend of the elbow. Sirus breathed in sharply but didn't cry out. Another kick, this time to the face, caused him to spit blood. All his instincts and memories told him to curl into a ball to minimize the injuries he'd receive. But the chains holding his arms out from his body forced him to lie flat. The man he now knew to be a deatheater stamped down on his stomach. Winded, he couldn't seem to draw breath into his lungs. A second blow to the head knocked his vision out of focus. He felt the wetness of blood seeping through the rough fabric of the prison uniform when one kick was vicious enough to split open the skin.

There was a pause in the violence.

But experience had thought Sirus that it was only that; a pause. A short break for the attacker to catch his breath. Or an attempt to intimidate him, to make what was coming worse by anticipation. A heavy boot slammed down on his right hand. He gasped at the agony of the many small bones breaking. He couldn't help but cry out when he felt the mangled fingers being ground into the stones. A sudden explosion of pain in his left knee let him know he'd been hit again. The blows continued, on and on and on, for what must have been close to an hour. Sirus was left soaked in blood and struggling to breath. The man in the Auror's uniform looked down at him, his face pink from exertion, a twisted smile on his lips. He raised his wand once again. "Crucio infinate."

And then pain really started. And didn't stop.