This piece was written before the release of HBP. There may be a few contradictions in here, but I don't think any of the new canon has affected it in any but the smallest ways.
The world of Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling, not me.
Sturgis walked nervously but resolutely down the grimy underground corridor, shivering under the cold blue half-light. He hated this place with a passion. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to be a prisoner here — it was bad enough to just visit for a few hours now and then. When all this aftermath is cleared up, he vowed, I'm going to quit this damn DMLE job, find myself some nice quiet work is a clerk in some shop, and never set foot in this place again.
It was bad enough in the upper levels, where he normally had to work. There, only a few Dementors patrolled the cellblocks, and there was a bit of feeble sunshine at certain times of day. Down here, in the high-security portion of the prison, there were dementors everywhere he looked, and the air was thick with despair. One of the sinister guards swept by him now, and he shuddered as his veins were flooded with ice, drawing his cloak more tightly around himself and hurrying on.
The cell he was heading for was down at the very end of this row, that of Bartemius Crouch, Jr. The former cell of Bartemius Crouch, Jr., that is — apparently, the boy was dead. Sturgis had been sent to check over his body, a task that the dementors could not perform due to lack of sight.
It was still a bit of a shock to Sturgis that Barty Crouch's son was a Death Eater. Sturgis had worked under Crouch for several years at the height of You-Know-Who's power, and the man's obsession with catching Dark wizards had been deeply impressed upon him. Now, though, old Crouch's prospects weren't looking too good — he'd suffered greatly in the polls since his son's arrest. It looked like, in the upcoming elections, Cornelius Fudge would get the job. And with the way old Barty's popularity had been dropping, he might very well not be the DMLE head much longer.
Sturgis wasn't quite sure what to think of the whole scandal. People were saying that it was Crouch's own fault his son had gone bad, that he had been too obsessed with his career and hadn't bothered with his family. Well, it was true that Sturgis's boss was dedicated to his job. The man probably worked more hours overtime in a week than Sturgis did total.
Crouch'd been here just the day before, though, to give his son a deathbed visit. At least he had enough heart to do that, Sturgis thought. But to be fair, Crouch was a very effective leader. Ruthless, yes, but effective. And he would probably make a better Minister than Fudge, but nothing could really be done about that. Not at this point.
Sturgis passed another dementor. This one was less careful than the last; it drew a rattling breath, and images passed before his eyes.
A midnight raid. Curses flashed through the darkness as they fought a losing battle. A swarm of Death Eaters had separated him from his raid partner and longtime best friend, Benjy Fenwick.
A scream pierced the air. Sturgis twisted to look for his friend, but could not see him — only several dark pieces of something flying into the air.
A severed finger struck him in the cheek.
Sturgis angrily shook his head as the dementor glided away. He would not allow the tears that pricked at the backs of his eyes to fall.
"Sturgis?"
He wheeled, caught off guard. The voice was hoarse, but familiar. It was coming from the small, barred window into one of the cells. Drawing closer, Sturgis saw two white fists grasping at the bars. A pale face floated in the gloom behind them.
There was only one person this could be. The one person Sturgis had intentionally banished from his thoughts when he'd first descended to the top-security level. The one person he'd deliberately avoided glancing around for. The one person down here who would know his name.
"Black." Sturgis tried and failed to keep his voice from wavering.
The man he used to think he knew pressed his face against the bars. He'd changed almost beyond recognition. His face was gaunt and haggard, his eyes dark hollows. His hair, formerly short, had grown down past his shoulders, and it was wildly matted and tangled. The carefree happiness that Sturgis remembered as the younger man's trademark had disappeared from his features. He was almost ghostlike.
"Is it really you, Sturgis?"
Sturgis drew back uncertainly, but nodded.
Black slumped against the bars. "God, I haven't seen a familiar face in — in — I don't know how long."
"Three years," Sturgis supplied automatically. That's right, he realized. It's been three years, and we're still clearing up the aftermath.
"Thanks."
Sturgis looked helplessly at the prisoner and didn't speak.
"Have we got things back in order yet?" Black asked softly. "You know, from the war?"
Sturgis jolted sharply at the use of 'we'. "We have everything under control," he said coldly. "You have been soundly defeated."
An ironic smile touched Black's lips. "Of course, I'm the bad guy now. I forgot."
Sturgis simply stared. He'd never really known Black, who was three years his junior, but had assumed he'd seem decidedly — well — insane, evil, deranged, now that he was in Azkaban. Black seemed — normal. He was the same person he'd been before, minus a bit of laughter.
He was spying for You-Know-Who before, Sturgis reminded himself.
"You killed James and Lily," he said, more for himself than Black.
"I don't deny it."
"You killed thirteen Muggles and Peter Pettigrew with a single curse."
Black scowled. After a moment, he said, "Believe what you will; it doesn't matter now."
"I have duties to fulfill," Sturgis told him stiffly, and turned away. He could feel Black's eyes burning into the back of his skull all the way down the narrow corridor.
He completed the check of the boy's body quickly, wanting to get out of the hellish place as quickly as possible, and gave brief instructions to the dementors to bury him outside the prison. At last, he was walking back up the corridor, eyes firmly fixed on the door at its end, looking neither left nor right. He took the staircase three steps at a time, and at last he was out, delivering a speedy report before practically running to the Apparition point.
The next day, Sturgis Podmore handed in his resignation, with no intention of ever looking back.
Eleven years later, Sturgis lay on his back in a cold cell, hating the world in general. Dumbledore, for convincing him to rejoin the Order. Whatever idiot it was who invented the Imperius Curse, for all the obvious reasons.
Black, for surviving so much better than he was now.
These were good feelings. Human feelings. Signs that he had not been completely leeched of his emotions, or at least not yet.
Feeble sunlight touched his face, and he squinted against it, dim as it was. Rolling over, he took hold of the small, sharp stone lying in the corner. This practice was empty, meaningless, but he'd started doing it when he first came here, and the ritual was slightly comforting. It was logical, a rational interpretation of an abstract world of nightmares.
Sturgis marked off another day.
A/N: Wrote this a while back, never bothered to type it up. It's grown on me, actually. I reread it and liked it enough to publish it, so here you go. Please review; I love it when you do.