Antonin Dolohov
He's been here before, so he knows how to survive.
How long was he here for, then? A year? Two? He doesn't remember. It was when he was young and foolish, before his master had truly risen to power. An accident sent him here, a feud when he was young and headstrong and had yet to learn caution. He attacked another man, cursed him. Not with an Unforgivable, but still viciously enough to warrant a year in Azkaban.
A year, they said, but Antonin knows better. It wasn't a year. It was an eternity, burning in hell. Time is inconsequential, in Azkaban, a place where cold burns like fire and happy memories pierce his heart like knives, like evil, loathesome things. Time, indeed, is inconsequential. The trick is to realize that. To let go of all you know and knew, temporarily. Don't discard the information, because one day you'll need it again. But put it somewhere safe, somewhere out of reach, and tell yourself you've forgotten.
Pretty smiles and female wiles.
Taking pride and when to hide.
He forgets these things.
He doesn't know them.
Not anymore.
All he knows is time, and time is tricky here. Twenty four hour units were devised by someone who has never known this, so he learns new ways to measure time.
The time between falling to a tortured sleep and waking to a tortured reality. That's a unit.
The time between someone else's spine-chilling screams, and the silence that makes him feel the whole world is dead and dying, with life a long-forgotten echo . . . . . a unit.
The time between blacking out and losing sight, between nightmares and hallucinations . . .. another unit.
The time between his master's fall and the day the walls come crashing down . . . . .
Immeasurable units.