The bitter cold permeated the air to an uncomfortable degree, steeping the stone in a frigid sheen of ice. The sun may have shined, but the darkness that settled blocked out nearly all light. Wind whipped through the decrepit foundations, seeping into every crack and crevice and imperfection.
Ghostly guards floated past, leaving a trail of despair in their wake. Every unearthly "step" they took, brought him one step closer to absolute madness. Their pitch black cloaks were tattered, eaten through by insects and covered in dried gore. Their howls sounded like a shrieking vortex, both silent and screaming, full of pain, enough to torture any soul to near death. Their kiss was just as deadly, moreso even, but it was a fate that may still come to pass.
Sirius shivered, wrapping the thin blanket around his now frail body. Once he was strong; tall and well built, and handsome to boot. Now he was a shell of his former self. A ghost. His limbs could've snapped like twigs, brittle from malnutrition. Once white teeth rotted away, tasting like sweet decay on his tongue. Black hair hung limp and brittle, it's luster long gone. But his face was the worst. Lined and aged with torment and terror, gaunt in appearance. Stretched too thin, like his skull might break through his skin. There were no mirrors here, he hadn't truly seen himself in ages, but he knew.
The walls around him were barren and bleak. A blank canvas, but for what, he wasn't sure. Down the corridor, another prison howled in pain or madness, perhaps both. The voice sounded familiar, distinctly female, but croaking and broken. A cousin perhaps? Her voice carried, babbling on about her love for the Dark Lord and his imminent rise to power.
Sirius thrust his hands over his ears and curled into a ball. His energy was beyond drained, but he always managed the strength to shift away. Using every bit of unfocused concentration he possessed, he willed his body into his other form. His better form. Here at least.
It took a while, but he managed. Bones cracked and muscles warped, trapped beneath skin and fur. It hurt, but he knew he deserved every moment. He felt the bite of the fleas, digging into his skin and drinking his blood. It wasn't far from what the dementors did, and he'd prefer the fleas company anyways. Shaking his head knocked several of them away, making the itch more bearable. He curled up again, the mangy fur going a long way to keep him warm. Warmer, at least. It was impossible to truly be warm here.
His days passed by. Dozens of weeks, then months, and finally years. Long ago he'd stopped keeping track of the passage of time, resolved that he would rot here for eternity for a crime he didn't commit. But he accepted it. He was still guilty, even if he was innocent of the crime they imprisoned him for.
The guilt ate away over the days and weeks and months and years. James and Lily. And baby Harry. How old was he now? Poor Harry. It was his fault his godson grew up without parents. His fault that two of the best people he ever knew, his best friends, were viciously murdered.
And that was something he'd have to live with for the rest of his tormented days, no matter how long they might be. He closed his eyes and the memories flooded in, unwanted and welcome at the same time. He didn't want to remember, it hurt. But he didn't want to forget either.
Meeting James in school. Getting sorted into Gryffindor. His mum, chasing him around the house, trying to curse him, before he finally left for good. Mr. and Mrs. Potter, welcoming him into their home. Their family. Graduating and joining the Order. James and Lily's wedding. Harry's birth.
The highlights of his life, played on repeat. Some days the memories twisted into darkened nightmares. Lily's wedding dress, covered in the green glow of the killing curse. James' face, decaying before his eyes. Peter and Remus were there as well, their once happy group of Marauders that he thought were unbreakable.
At least he'd found love, and experienced its genuine purity. Perhaps not the traditional kind, despite his best efforts. He'd dated girls and even a few boys, but he was more interested in hanging out with his friends, pulling pranks, and later, keeping his chosen family safe. No, the love he'd felt was arguably deeper. Familial, something he chose rather than fell into or was thrust upon him by blood. The Potters were his family. He'd loved them, and they loved him. But still, he'd let them down, in the end.
But that love did keep him going, as bent and broken as he was. There was one left, even if the boy had no idea of his existence. Sirius spent his days picturing what Harry's life was like. He knew that Lily's sister was a vile woman, but he hoped that losing her sister would humble her. He liked to picture Harry, happy and healthy, playing with other children and going to school. Growing up, and one day learning about his parents' brave sacrifice.
And that was how he spent his days. In equal torment and escape, often shifted into canine form to avoid the full effect of the dementors.
The day came when his fellow prisoners started whispering again. Rumors of "he who must not be named" rising, somewhere. Gaining followers. Sirius often ignored these whispers, but something caught his attention that fateful day.
Cornelius Fudge was inspecting the prison, dressed in outlandish robes, his voice grating against Sirius' canine senses. He shifted quickly to avoid being caught as an unregistered animagus. The dementors couldn't tell the difference, but surely Fudge would notice.
"Ah, and here we have… Rudolphus LeStrange," Fudge said, his voice sounding a full pitch higher. "Why are the prisoners all so unkempt?"
"It's the dementors sir, surely you know that…" the young warden of Azkaban said quickly. Sirius had only seen the man once or twice and didn't have much of an impression of him. He knew the man was in charge of ordering food and supplies, schedules for the inmates that actually got to step foot outside their cells. While Azkaban ran mainly because of the dementors, it also required a minimal human presence as well.
"They refuse to bathe? The other prisoners look much better."
"This is high security. Dementors outside day and night. The prisoners are offered the chance to bathe twice a week. Some forgo and prefer to stay in their cell."
"Hmmph," Fudge replied, as though he hadn't understood the ramifications of such conditions before today. "Let's continue, shall we?"
The two men moved down the row of cells, peering in the bars and commenting on the various conditions. Holes on the walls that needed repair, leaking pipes, inmates that looked on the brink of death. Sirius' ears perked up, absorbing every word. It wasn't very interesting, truth be told, but it did break up the routine monotony of the day.
"This here's Sirius Black."
Sirius sat up slightly straighter. It felt like his spine was bent from staying hunched over for so long, and a loud crack echoed off the stone walls.
"Tragic business with the Potters," Fudge tutted. "He looks remarkably alert."
The warden shrugged and Sirius stood. Fudge took a step back in surprise and clapped a hand over his heart.
"That hole in his cell will need repairing," Fudge noted, while the Warden scribbled it down.
"Please –" Sirius had not spoken aloud in…how long was it? His voice croaked and scratched, sounding like cotton and glass had been shoved down his throat.
"Did he just say something?"
"I like the hole. I can see the sky."
"He did indeed just speak. Remarkable," Fudge said.
"Some inmates appear to have a stronger resistance to the dementors effects."
Fudge eyed him with an equal measure of curiosity and disgust. "So you like the hole in your cell because it allows you to look at the sky?"
"Yes."
"Why? Doesn't it let the rain and snow in?"
Sirius nodded. "It does. But it gives me something else to do," his voice nearly gave way, and he swallowed heavily in an effort to wet his throat. "I like to look at the clouds."
"Very well then," Fudge said, perplexed. Sirius noticed a newspaper tucked below his arm, and looked back up at Fudge's face.
"There isn't a lot to do, locked in here."
"No, I imagine not."
"D'you think I could have that paper? Sir?" He tacked the sir on in a respectful manner. It had been years since he'd had anything to read, and he was curious to know what year it was.
"I'm not sure –" Fudge looked to the warden who shrugged. Reading material wasn't forbidden, they just never made it a priority. And very few of the prisoners on this floor were mentally aware enough to read a picture book, let alone a novel or paper. "Yes, you may."
Fudge took baby steps, inching closer. He knew that it would be unwise for the prisoner to try anything, but Black had a fearsome reputation and had murdered all but one of his best friends. His hallowed appearance did nothing to belay the idea that he was a mass murder, on the contrary. It added to it. His hair was tangled in a mess, his eyes hollow and sunken. Sirius Black looked half dead already.
Fudge rolled the paper and thrust it between the bars. He held into it by the very edge, waiting for Sirius to take it. Sirius was grateful that the Minister at least offered him that small dignity, he could've tossed it to the floor like he was a dog instead. Sirius let out a hoarse, barklike laugh at his thoughts, and the irony. Fudge gave him a weary look and took a step back once the newspaper was securely in Sirius' hands.
"I think it's time to move on, Minister."
"Yes, yes. Of course." Fudge turned to Sirius once more. "Enjoy the paper."
"Thank you."
Once the two moved on to the next cell, Sirius collapsed to the ground and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He could barely contain his excitement, feeling the smooth paper in his hands, smelling the pulpy fragrance.
He looked at the date. July 11, 1993? Bloody hell, he'd been here forever. And Harry's birthday was coming up in a few days. Harry was turning…13. Had he really been locked away in Azkaban for that long?
Eventually his gaze wandered back to the front page. A photo of a happy looking, red haired family smiled back at him. Sirius used a grimy finger to trace each one of their faces. He recognized them, or the parents at least. Although they were older and hadn't been close, Arthur and Molly had been kind when they met, before the incident that landed him here.
Sirius read over the article, absorbing each bit of mundane information. But it was the photo he kept going back to, and he didn't know why. Lips pursed in a frown, he looked over it again and again, trying to figure out what was bothering him.
And then it hit. The rat. The bloody, missing a toe, fat, watery eyed rat. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open in shock and horror. It couldn't be. There was no way. Even he wouldn't be that stupid.
Sirius tossed the paper across his cell as though it burned him. The dementor outside peered in, its rasping breath and empty black hood just looking for a reason to end him. Sirius held his breath, hardly daring to breathe. They stayed that way, an intense standoff, for what felt like forever. Sirius limbs began to shake from standing so still, so stiff. Eventually, the dementor pulled its head back and moved on, toward the shouts of someone further down the hall.
Sirius collapsed to a heap on the ground. The cold stone bit into his knees, but he hardly noticed. Weak and exhausted, he crawled back over to the paper and gingerly picked it up. He studied the photo. He couldn't say for how long, but hours at least. Maybe days. A gambit of emotions poured into him. Rage, guilt, disbelief, and finally, fear. If that stupid rat was going back to Hogwarts, Harry would never be safe. He had to do something. He had to act. But what? His fingers tapped absently at his thigh, and he eventually fell into a fitful sleep.
James visited that night. Sirius had no idea if it was real, a delusion, or a dream, but there he was. Looking just like he had all those years ago. Glasses nearly askew, the back of his hair ruffled. A casual smirk on his face. It was James all right.
They didn't speak, but they didn't need to. Sirius knew why he was there. Sirius had to save Harry and find justice for the Potter's murder. No one else knew the truth, not anyone that would tell it at least. It was up to him. And this time, he wouldn't fail. Love and good would prevail. He had to believe that. Sirius clung to that thought with every ounce of strength he had left while he formulated a plan.
He had to do the impossible. He had to escape Azkaban.
