Hey guys. Wow, I owe you all an apology for not updating. I do have a fair explaination, and the next few chapters will be posted rather quickly. I got a new computer--one without a floppy drive and I had no means of transferring the data from the computer I write on to the one with internet. Finally figured it out. Sorry everyone. >

Hope you enjoy this next chapter; Warning: Explicit language and will get worse, so please don't read if you are offended or anything other.

DISCLAIMER: No, I still don't own Harry Potter, or Sirius Black in this case. Oh, but I will...

Sirius was dragged away from the small room, still fighting, but the dementors soon weakened the man, their grasp of power already getting to him and throwing off his senses. Sirius had never seen dementors before, but he had read about what they did to people. But no words seemed to describe their terror, as they seemed to just barely resist the urge to do their 'job'. To suck out souls. Even if the minister had warned them very fiercely, Sirius could feel their restlessness mixed in with own, and every happy thought of the past was beginning to fade away. Sirius tried unsuccessfully to resist the dementors power, but soon felt himself falling, lost, into a world of blackness. The dementors threw everyone into this depression, and, once fallen to the will of dementors, one could never go back. Sirius tried to struggle and keep his thoughts from these foul creatures, but to no avail. It was a long walk to his cell, too. A very long walk. After the had crossed half of the prison and appeared in one of darkest, smallest, dankest corners that the dirty prison could possibly have, the dementors pulled open the door and roughly threw Sirius in. The hooded figures seemed to cackle and jump with excitement at this new prisoner, and Sirius would have sworn they were laughing. Demntors seemed to have their own language, Sirius could insist, but no one would ever believe him. Because no one would ever live through something like this.

Sirius looked at the dimness around him and listened to the dementors sweeping by. Sirius was painfully aware of how the dementors moved from his cell. Every sweeping sound or long hiss came from one. There were no prisoners in Sirius' section, but he had still been given the smallest and darkest cell.

Sirius sat in his cell, deep in thought. It had been less than a day and he could already feel his defenses weakening. How did he land himself in Azkaban exactly? That good-for-nothing, goddamn Peter Pettigrew! I can't believe something like this could ever happen! My best friends, dead, me in prison, Peter Pettigrew, the god damn murderous traitor, running around the sewers, that god damn rat, and everyone else thinking I killed James. But why? Sirius' thoughts were filled with anger. His story was a very long one, and he truly was innocent. And then the goddamn Ministry had to come—and my lower-than-life piece of scum father. I don't know which is worse, my father or Fudge! Sirius, quite sick of sitting on a rock-hard bed, sat down on the floor in the corner where he could rest against the wall. Quite surprisingly, and sadly, the floor seemed much softer compared to the bed. Figures, came a bitter thought from Sirius. The floor seemed like a much better place to sit. Until something hairy and large crawled onto his hand, that is. Sirius yelled out and jumped up, but the dementors just laughed in their eerie language and continued sweeping back and forth.

"God damn fucking spiders!" Sirius spat loudly, but no one was there to hear him, or to care. No one human that is, as the dementors' eerie laughter washed over him. If anything was to drive him crazy in this place, it would be the dementors' laughter. Maybe that was why the place had such an accursed reputation. No one had ever survived Azkaban, and no one had ever escaped. And they thought no one ever would.

I brushed a spider off my shoulder for the thirtieth time that week—or what I supposed to be week. No time in Azkaban—go to sleep, wake up, count a new day. The time seemed to stand still, only sleeping and eating broke the treacherous routine, the cycle that soon became ritual for me. The ritual, as I began to call it, was disrupted one day by loud voices and long screaming wails. The dementors, who usually swept around aimlessly, their purpose being none, seemed quite excited, and their reactions almost seemed human. But eerie—a very disturbing human trait, pressing themselves nearer the wall, listening, their evil laughter washing over me again. I felt myself shudder, an odd chill passing through me. This seemed to be a special day. There were prisoners coming to my wing, my own space that had been empty since I had arrived. I was donned dangerous, even to the other prisoners. Fudge was convinced that I would laugh like a madman at all hours. I only did during my 'mug-shots' as muggles call them, and that was because of how damn cynical I was feeling, and how ironical the situation was.

Ah, my situation. Why the hell I am here, insisting to everyone that I am innocent. That's a long story, and now, as I've have many long, quiet moments to think about it, the story unfolds itself to me, so simple and clear. Only if it were this clear a few weeks ago. It is entirely my fault. My best friend is dead…because of me. James and Lily Potter died because I thought I was being brave. Because I put so much trust into one man, and didn't stop to see the evil brewing behind his weak and temptacious veil. You see, my friends knew that Voldemort, hell I'll say the name, and he isn't a Lord either, was after them. They went seeking protection, and one of the greatest men alive, Albus Dumbledore, I'll get to him later, suggested to them something called a 'Secret-Keeper'. Great idea, and James chose me—me to protect him, Lily, and their one-year-old baby Harry. I felt a chill run through me as I repeated his name softly. Harry…my precious godson…the only survivor.

At this thought I sighed loudly, but the dementors made no rustle or inquisition to me as one of the new prisoners screamed a reply. They were awfully excited over this trial, must be many people…and they're eager…way too eager. If I wasn't behind bars they would be after me, and I probably would have lost my soul. I've learned to stay away from them, as far away as possible. Which is hard, considering that I'm the only one in this branch of hell, with about 20 dementors on me at all times. It's hard to stay sane…to stay in the least bit positive, but right now they're not focusing on me…it's so god damn hilarious how ironic this situation has turned out to be.

Anyway, the spell was completed and I was the Potters' Secret Keeper. But, I sighed again, I thought good ol Voldie, yes, damn right I'll call him that too, would come straight to me when he learned of the spell. So I, doing what I hoped would save their and my damned life, decided that they should change secret-keepers. James chose Remus Lupin, my best, but now lost, friend, as his second choice, but Remus had been acting so god-damned secretive and snappy around me that I thought he was a spy. How cynical that situation was, me accusing my best friend of something like that. Anyway, I had a new thought, something I thought would be perfect—completely unsuspecting. Well, that's where my being in Azkaban comes in; Peter Pettigrew.

Tagging along with James, Remus, an' me all through school but we stuck by him---that murderous, traitorous pile of dragon shii—Sorry, I'll stop now…I thought he'd be perfect for the job, so weak and powerless, good ole Voldie would never guess to check him…so of course I suggested it right away to James, and of course James trusted my opinion. I only wish that I had known then what I know now. Peter was passing information to Voldemort—god damned stinking rat! It gets worse—not many people know that I was once the potters' secret keeper—but they all are sure that I killed them, that I myself killed my best friends. And I good as well did—because I handed them to Peter, my once trusted friend. This is my fault—I should have died rather than risk their lives by switching. I didn't know that Peter had been passing information to Voldie, and I'm very prone to calling that serpent Voldie right now…and I didn't know that that spineless bastard was even capable of laying eyes on the serpent without dying of fear—he probably wet himself every time 'The Serpent' addressed him. You know, I am becoming fonder of 'The Serpent' for that sniveling man to whom I was once driven to call Voldie.

But the fact still remains—everyone's life has been changed by this—everyone's. My best friends, my family, even that sniveling crook-and here I'm not sure if I'm talking about Snapple or Pettigrew, but what does it matter? And one other fact still remains as well---this is all, completely and utterly, my fault. I banged my head against the wall loudly, which only caused a few dementors to stir in a bout of anger and confusion. Oww…I think I killed off some more brain cells. I tended to do this a lot lately, and I was beginning to believe that someone's head is capable of leaving marks. Oh great, there goes my damn cyincality again. And yes, according to my friend, cynicality is a real word. But she was crazy, so who's to say? I miss her to death however…that girl helped me through every problem I ever faced. Every trouble. "Trouble." That word caught the dementors attention, as one swooped angrily towards me. Instantly these happy thoughts began to fade, a pounding feeling burst into my head and I was blinded for a moment.

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I shook it off slowly; it seemed worse than usual. I got a bad case of chills at that moment, and fell back against the rock-hard bed, sitting once again. I hadn't even realized that I had stood up in the first place—the dementor's spell was beginning to take hold on me. He had tried to pull me to him, drag me to his mercy, now I remember…but he had stopped. Footsteps and the gliding sound of the dementors were heading towards my wing. Many footsteps echoed throughout the place, and to my dismay, I saw Fudge, wearing a bowler and pinstriped suit, step through first, the dementors a few feet behind him. The dark-faced prisoners, yes it was a whole group of them, followed between, several chained together and led by several human guards. Humans…guards here at Azkaban, they must be putting the worst possible prisoners in here with me—although they think I am one of them. Several hooded shapes enter afterwards, and Fudge turns to address them.

"You will lock these prisoners each along the left side," Fudge said sharply. The left side—they would be next to me, but I was still jammed in a corner. "They are, under no circumstance, allowed to be taken out until their trial."

"How come they get an effing trial?" I muttered quite angrily and loudly.

"Keep Mr. Black from muttering these obscenities." Fudge commanded before turning on the dementors. "He has been here a week and is still completely sane—he remembers everything."

"I'd like my trial!" Sirius exclaimed as several of the death eaters leered and hissed at him. He leaned against the bars to his prison casually and looked almost at home. "I'm not one of them."

"Mr. Black, we are not classifying you as 'one of them'." Fudge snapped peevishly. "You are under a much more severe classification, as the right-hand-man of He-who-must-not-be-named and a dangerous murderer." Fudge pointed to Sirius' 'mugshots' (for lack of a better name) and watched as Sirius laughed insanely. Sirius watched darkly. That cynical feeling was getting to him again, so he retreated towards the furthest corner of his cell, where shadows would prevent him from being seen. Much to his dismay, the jeers and hisses of the true death eaters lasted much longer than Fudge's booming voice. When he and the guards had stepped from the room and only dementors were left, one prisoner hollered to him.

"Youuu……you ruined our master! You do not deserve to be even mistaken for one of us…ha…a faithful death eater!" a woman cried out pitifully. Sirius tried his best to ignore the similar comments coming from the group.

"Black…whooooo…Our Lord will come…they will save us and destroy you…your weakness is apparent Black…we have started our conquer!" one, male, screamed, and Sirius tried to shrink further back. Just ask the true supporters, he thought bitterly, they all want me dead because I'm not one of them!

But Fudge seemed to believe that these death eaters wanted me dead because I was the Serpent's right-hand man and they hated me because 'The Serpent' favored me. Over my dead body! And that's true, the day I listen to the serpent…the day I become a death-eater…why that's the day Snape and I get along! Snape…that filthy Death Eater…how dare he…always knew he was trouble…

I was quite rudely shaken out of my thoughts by a death eater's cries and pleas for mercy. A dementor had swooped down on him in a furious fit, but not as terrible as the prisoner's yells. If there was anything that stupid prisoner deserved, it was nothing short of a nice terrifying dementor right in his face—but the screams were giving me quite a terrible headache. That stupid dementor was really close to my cell—right next door, so I picked up a chunk of rock hard bread from my plate—I really wasn't hungry for once in my life—and chucked it at the dementor. Direct hit. It caused him to draw back, and the man's screams turned to frantic mutterings. That man would only be there a few more days, I judged, before he would die of craziness. Serves him right.

Serves everyone but me right…that they shall die in a retched place like this. And why not me? Because I wouldn't let them get to me. It had been a month—and this man was the last of that group that had been brought in. New prisoners had replaced the emptied cells but many of them had gone as well. Only a few remained for a long while, and at long last my neighbor, who jeered loudly and rudely at me at all hours before he lost all sanity, was going to be gone too.

As I sat that day, the minutes since the screams had ceased, I realized how much I wanted that bread now that it was gone. Although it had gone to a good cause, I regretted wasting my daily meal. I also had some soup-y looking gruel, and I was beginning to grow extremely hungry. I began to wish that none of this had happened, and I began to resent Peter and 'The Serpent' more than ever, my anger directed at those two in particular. This obsession grew over the next few months, as prisoners came in and were carried out under a grimy white sheet merely weeks later.

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