November 1, 1981
I really do despise this cell. Everything's closed in by concrete walls except for a small barred window on the door, and you have to stand up to see anything out of it. It wouldn't be so bad if there was something to look at — bricks, tiles, anything you can count... I'd count the number of pages in this journal if I didn't already know the answer. 500. I even thought of tearing a few out so I wouldn't know, and then I could count them to find out. But I don't want to waste pages.
It really is a nice journal, you know — bound with black leather and my own initials engraved on the front. The paper inside almost resembles parchment; it's brown and stiff with no lines on it at all. It looks like it should have some out of a museum or the hands a philosopher.
You'd think I'd have more to write about, considering that You-Know-Who is gone. Or dead. Something. At any rate, it happened last night according to rumor: You-Know-Who tried to kill the Longbottoms, but when he tried to kill their baby, the spell backfired or something ridiculous like that. Rumors in Azkaban can't be accurate. I also heard something about the Porters. And Sirius Blank was somehow involved.
I thought Black was on our side. But he's in the cell across from mine today.
I think I know why I haven't got that much to write about: I'm not writing any of these rumors down. That's all they are, rumors. I never write down rumors. Only facts.
I'm waiting for one of those damn guards — the human ones — to walk by so I can ask them what truly happened to You-Know-Who.
November 2, 1981
A slightly more realistic version: You-Know-Who killed the Potters, and the spell backfired on their one year old son. I know because I asked Black, and he nearly yelled my ear off correcting me. No guards came by yesterday or today, so I couldn't ask them. I thought that Black would be my best bet, considering he should be half-way sane compared to the other prisoners. But I'm not even sure of that; he snarled out everything he said to me, his eyes bulging and his knuckles white from clutching the bars to the door window too tightly.
I remembered then Black's position in the war, what he was last known for: he was the Potter's secret keeper. Made an awful lot of publicity about it too. So that's why he's here. He must be the reason You-Know-Who found the Potters.
I turned back to my own cell, deciding I had the most coherent information I would gain from Black. But Black called out to me, his voice no longer shouting, but desperate and hollow. "I didn't betray them!" he croaked.
I turned back to him, and it was at that moment when I noted the color of his eyes. They are grey. Grey eyes are easy to read. That's why I like mine, brown and unreadable. It helps me to keep a strait face.
His eyes weren't lying. He was telling the truth.
But knowing whether or not he's fibbing doesn't help me at all. What was he telling the truth about? Was it the Potters he didn't betray or the Death Eaters? You-Know-Who is dead, and I'm sure some Death Eaters must consider Black a traitor, murderer of their Dark Lord.
"I believe you," I told him. I didn't desire an explanation from him, a twisted and exaggerated tail of the truth in his own favor. No matter what source you get, they are all twisted in that way, some more than others. I will think for myself instead and remain unbiased.
November 3, 1981
There are torches aligning the walls of the corridor that are put out at night, and I can't decide whether I love or hate this. On one hand, this is Azkaban — the prisoners desire no more darkness than can already be found. On the other, I'm convinced that without them, I wouldn't be able to tell when the day ends and night begins.
Would it be too much to ask for a window? One measly window. It needn't be large — simply big enough to see out of, to confirm that the rest of the world, the sky, and the earth still exist. Has it rained since I've been imprisoned here? Would I have heard thunder if it stormed?
I suppose I would. After all, I heard a dog howling last night. Poor creature, to be brought by its master to such a place.
I am slowly becoming more and more alarmed that I can't remember why I was sentenced to Azkaban in the first place. Did I even know why before I came, or am I already becoming mad?
Are people aware when they are insane? An expert would say no, of course not. But who are the experts to say they know what goes through any human's mind? Unless they have gone insane and then been healed to tell their tale, I don't believe anyone has the right to say they know.
I came to the suddenly realization this morning that I probably will go mad before I am released. I'm angry that I didn't see this technicality before: there are only 500 pages in the journal. 365 days in a year. 5 years. Numbers, numbers! I was never good at Arithmancy. But simple logic kicks in, and I see that even if I use the front and back of each page, this raggedy bundle of paper and ink won't last five years.
365 days in a year
X 5
1825 days in prison
1000 pages front and back
Maybe I can stall insanity by going back and reading each entry — one a day. That should give me enough time...but will it work?
I heard somewhere that insane people can't do math. Sounded like a load of rubbish at the moment, but right now I'd love to believe it true.
November 4, 1981
A guard — a human guard — walked by my cell today, and when I asked him about You-Know-Who, he responded, "Why d'you want to know? Interested in what happened to your master?" Oh, the fury that evoked within me! And for more than one reason! A guard walking by had been my hope and obsession for the past three torturous days, and he cast me aside like an unpleasant bug that perched on his shoulder! Secondly, I am not, and never will be, a Death Eater! The Death Eaters were about being pure of blood, free from Muggles or Muggle blood, and I certainly do not agree that blood purity is something to fight a war over.
Then again... I hadn't thought of it before... I don't remember why I was sentenced here... Surely I would remember becoming a Death Eater though...
Black! I will ask Black who it was he didn't betray, the Potters or the Death Eaters! If it was the Potters he told me he didn't betray, that must mean he thinks I was on the Ministry's side! And if it was the Death eaters he didn't betray, he must think me to be a Death Eater! His voice, so hollow, so desperate — he was seeking acceptance from me. All I need to know is what side he was on! At least, I need to know what side he wants me to believe he was on.
It will be highly ironic if I am a Death Eater; I am writing with a ball point pen.
November 5, 1981
The Potters. Black claims not to have betrayed the Potters.
I am relieved.
He wouldn't tell me at first, and I can't say as I blame him; I told him I believed him, and when I asked who it was he didn't betray two days later, he realized I was deceiving him. My guess is that if we were anywhere but here, he never would have told me at all. I was right though; Black desires acceptance from me. I don't know if it's because I seem sane to him compared to the other prisoners or because he knows I'm not a Death Eater. More probable, however, is that I'm the only person whose face he can actually see.
He called me Alfred at one point in our conversation. I still call him Black.