Rejection by his family, quarrels and betrayal from his friends - especially Remus - his own stupid mistakes, and the dead faces of his loved ones. These were the memories which haunted Sirius in Azkaban Prison. There were other, smaller ones, but these, the worst, were by far the most frequent.
Sometimes the memories were confused, and he found Remus and little Harry among the dead in Godric's Hollow. Sometimes he had been the Secret-Keeper after all, and James and Lily had died anyway. Sometimes he killed them with his own bare hands, tears streaming down his cheeks, unable to stop himself. Sometimes baby Harry looked up from his arms with accusing green eyes and said, "You did this, Sirius. It's your fault they died."
And sometimes, both in the visions brought by the Dementors and in his own terrible imaginings, he saw Remus take a steady stream of lovers to his bed, and afterwards he would tell them that he loved them, and that he had never loved anyone else. Sirius despaired that he could not even remember Remus smiling and happy. Perhaps he had never been. Perhaps his life with Sirius had brought him nothing but misery, and he was glad to be rid of him.
It was unbearable. At first, Sirius accepted that what had happened really had been his fault, and that this, his life sentence in Azkaban, was a just punishment. But one night he awoke from a dream of a rat sleeping in the sunlight, and he knew he had been wrong. He had not killed James and Lily; he had simply made a mistake. Even James and Remus had not seen what Peter really was. How could it be right for Sirius to be here, suffering daily torments, while Peter walked free?
From that moment, a tiny seed was planted in Sirius's mind. "I'm innocent," it said. "I don't deserve this." Because it was not precisely a happy thought, the Dementors had no power to take it from him, and he clung to it.
The truth will come out, he told himself nightly. Peter will make a mistake - he has to - and someone will see. The truth must be told, and I have to be sane enough to tell it when they ask me.
Slowly, day by day, he began to gather together the shreds of his sanity, weaving them around the knowledge of his own innocence. But he had been in Azkaban for more than a year by this time, and it was slow work.
He remembered that he used to be able to become a dog. Maybe remembering how would give him a focus and help to keep him sane. He would never have a wand again, but this was a kind of magic he could do without one. He was still a wizard, after all, and not without some power.
It took months. Too many memories of Padfoot and of how Sirius had become him were tied up in moments of joy, and he could not bring them to mind without calling the Dementors to him. But he could recall with some clarity the explanation of the method from The History and Theory of the Animagus Transformation, which he had had out from the Hogwarts library for nearly a year. The bare, boring text brought him no joy, and therefore, no Dementors.
When at last he managed it, it was almost in his sleep. He lay on his bunk, exhausted from another day of torment and memories, longing for the remembered simplicity of his canine mind, when he slipped forms almost without noticing. It was only when his shackles fell from his slender hind legs and clanked to the floor that his eyes popped open.
He turned his head, and sure enough, there was the familiar, shaggy body. The fur was matted, and he was a bit thinner than he had been, but he was Padfoot again. He barely managed to suppress a bark of triumph.
Rising unsteadily to his feet, he jumped from the bunk to the floor of the cell and stretched, then shook himself thoroughly. He paused to scratch behind his ear and to think about what this rediscovered ability might mean.
It was doubtful that the Dementors would see the change. Sirius was not even certain that they had eyes. They would be able to sense a change in his emotions, though. But perhaps they would not consider that worth reporting. Probably everyone's emotions changed in this place as they went mad.
He would have to keep his form hidden from the house-elves, as well as from the regular Ministry inspections. But so long as he could become Padfoot some of the time, that was enough, for now. He jumped back onto the bunk, pulled the blanket up with his teeth until it covered him completely, and, with a contented sigh, went to sleep.
It did not take him long to discover a significant side benefit to his transformation.
The next day, as he felt the cold that preceded a visit from the Dementors, he transformed out of fear. Right away, he noticed two things. Firstly, that while the cold lessened with the addition of fur to his body, the scent of the Dementors came to him more sharply; a musty, cold, mildewed sort of smell. The second thing he noticed was that his fear decreased sharply. While he still felt strongly inclined to retreat to the far corner of his cell and curl up in the shadows, he no longer lost all control over his mind. His simple, canine thoughts were not subject to the Dementors' power in the same way his human thoughts were. The Dementors, for their part, seemed disappointed, and did not stay for as long as usual.
Sirius immediately began to use this discovery to his advantage. He spent the vast majority of his time as a dog, changing to a man and slipping his feet back into his shackles only when he knew he was due for a visit from the Azkaban house-elves, or when he heard the ringing sound of human footfalls within the prison fortress.
The days passed, long and gray, with no way to mark the passage of time, save the length of the daylight hours, and the waxing and waning of the moon in the night sky, shining through his tiny cell window.
He was constantly aware of the moon. He did not mark the passage of days on his cell wall, as some prisoners do, but each full moon not spent with Remus was scratched into the stone and etched upon his heart. On those nights, he never slept. He simply sat in the tiny patch of light, the moon glinting from his thick fur, unmoving, unblinking, until he could no longer see the shining orb.
When gray dawn tinged the sky once more, he would sigh and transform, as he knew Remus was doing somewhere out there in the world beyond the walls. Then he would climb wearily onto his bunk, pull the thin blanket over him and whisper, "It's all right, Moony; it's over now."
He desperately hoped that Remus had someone to care for him by now, but at the same time, jealousy ate at him. It was on the full moon nights that he cursed Peter most of all. He often fell asleep imagining rodent bones snapping between canine teeth.
Slowly, the moon marks marched their way unevenly across the wall of the cell. Sirius knew the years were passing, but could not quite fathom how quickly or slowly. Day and night, summer and winter, all seemed to blend together into gray unreality.
He was spending too much of his time in canine form. When it became difficult for him to remember how to turn back into a man, he knew he must become human for a time, or remain a dog forever.
During those days and weeks of humanity, when the Dementors were not present to feed off him, he tried to imagine Harry. How old would he be now? What was he like? What was important to him? Could he remember his parents at all, or his uncles, Padfoot and Moony? Was there anyone in his life who cared for him? He counted the moons to try and figure out how old Harry would be. Six, or maybe seven, depending on the number of full moons per year.
In a few short years, Harry would be starting at Hogwarts. If there was no one kind and good in his life now, perhaps he would find them there. Sirius fervently hoped so. He wondered what house Harry would be in. Both his parents had been Gryffindors, of course, but that was no guarantee, as he himself knew from personal experience. And Harry was being raised by those horrible Muggles, who had put God only knew what twisted ideas into his head.
Sirius wondered if he would ever see his godson again, and how old he would be when he finally did. Perhaps Harry would be a grown man by then. In his mind, Harry looked a lot like James. But if Harry was still a boy by the time Sirius was freed, he would see what he could do about claiming custody. Once the truth was told, Harry would believe, wouldn't he? He would want to come and live with his godfather. And maybe then Remus -
But as soon as his thoughts went in that direction, the Dementors were there, reminding him of why he would never leave this place, why Remus hated him, why Harry would never believe him.
Thus passed the years for Sirius Black.
He had been Padfoot solidly for a week this time, hiding beneath his blanket whenever the house-elves arrived with food or a change of clothes, and so he was relatively well-rested on the morning he awoke to the sound of muffled human voices from somewhere within the fortress. He pricked up his ears, prepared to shift forms if they came his way.
Recognising one of the voices, he growled deep in his throat. He listened with Padfoot's sharp ears for as long as he could, only slipping on his shackles and changing when the iron door at the end of his own corridor clanged open. He stood, ready to face whoever was coming.
Sure enough, he knew one of the men. It was Cornelius Fudge; the one who had so blithely informed him years before that he was going to be sent to Azkaban without trial. Only now, around his neck, he bore the medallion of the Minister for Magic on official business.
Sirius's dislike of Fudge, coupled with his week-long respite from the attentions of the Dementors, caused a feeling to well up within his breast that was at once familiar and strange: cockiness. At one time, it had been debatable whether Sirius or James was the cockiest boy at Hogwarts, but it was an attitude Sirius had not assumed since coming to Azkaban.
Fudge seemed startled to see Sirius standing in his cell, fixing him with a clear-eyed gaze.
"Minister," Sirius greeted him, bowing mockingly.
"Black," Fudge replied, as if the name tasted foul upon his tongue.
"How pleasant it is to receive such distinguished visitors on so fine a morning!" Sirius declared, delighting in the inspection team's discomfort.
"Yes, well, humph." said Fudge uncomfortably.
Sirius's eye fell upon a copy of the Daily Prophet tucked under the Minister's arm. If he could just get a look at it, he could learn a little about what was going on in the world outside, and at the very least, he would know for certain how long he had been in here. He smiled, stepping closer to the bars and exposing all his teeth, as the inspection team fell back in horror.
"I wonder, Minister," he said in a voice at once bored and charming, "if you're finished with that newspaper, might I relieve you of it?" He yawned theatrically. "It's just so boring here, and I do so miss doing the crossword." He blinked winsomely, in the way that had always made Remus laugh.
"Er - well - I suppose," Fudge began, looking flustered. "I - er - don't see how it could do any harm -" His hand trembled slightly as he extended the paper between the bars of the cell.
Sirius snatched it quickly enough to make every wizard present jump and reach for his wand, and then grinned about toothily, making sure to make eye contact with each and every one of them.
"I thank you," he said, bowing once more to the Minister. "I do hope you find my humble home up to standards. I must say, the food is excellent, and the service is without compare. And as for the company -" but the inspection team were already hurrying away down the corridor, casting nervous glances over their shoulders. "Toodle pip, everyone!" Sirius called after them, waving gaily through the bars.
Only when the iron door had clanged shut behind them did Sirius sink back onto his bunk and look at the paper. He knew the system; it would be at least an hour before the inspection team left and the Dementors would have free reign over the corridors again.
The first thing he saw was the date. 23 July 1993. He had been in Azkaban for nearly a dozen years! And that would make him - thirty-three years old. Not a young man any longer. He felt a twinge as he realised that Harry would be thirteen in just a week's time.
His eyes scanned down the page, tongue stumbling as he read out loud his first words in almost twelve years. Though the stories were mostly dull reports on the latest from the Office of International Magical Cooperation, and what was going on these days at the Ministry - not much - he hungrily read every word, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed as he remembered the rhythm of it, drinking in the pictures.
By anyone else's measure, it was a slow news day, but to Sirius, nothing seemed sweeter. He turned the page to read the latest Quidditch scores with delight, and was halfway through the third page when his eyes stopped dead on a picture of a large family standing in front of a pyramid.
For a moment, he could hardly breathe. No. It can't be!
But it was. Softly and first, and then gradually increasing in volume, a growl rose in his throat, and then Sirius Black threw back his head and howled.