For the first time in many years, Sirius began to believe in a divine Benevolence overseeing the universe. Or at least in a Higher Power with a sense of humour. He felt as though he had swallowed an entire goblet full of Felix Felicis.

Not only had Peter let himself be seen, but he had allowed himself be photographed by the Daily Prophet in the very edition which, by divine good fortune, Sirius now held in his hands. Well, for all Sirius knew, Peter could have published his own swimsuit calendar, and appeared in every edition of the Daily Prophet for the past twelve years.

He squinted at the text beneath the photograph in the dim light. Peter was living with the Weasley family, apparently as the pet of one of their children. What little colour he possessed drained from his face as a word from the caption jumped out at him. Hogwarts. Of course all these children went to Hogwarts. But Harry was at Hogwarts. And that meant Harry was in danger.

Sirius had heard the mad mutterings of some of his fellow inmates. He knew, of course, that Voldemort had fallen on the night James and Lily had died, and that Harry had been at the centre of that mystery. There were two people hated above all others by Voldemort's followers: Harry Potter, and the one who had sent Voldemort to Godric's Hollow on that night.

The deranged murmurs did not seem certain, however, that Voldemort was dead. There was some belief that he was still out there somewhere, waiting. Peter's one chance to live his life in human form again would be to deliver Harry to Voldemort as a show of good faith. Without Harry, Peter's human form would only earn him a life sentence in Azkaban at best, or at worst, a slow and painful death at the hands of Voldemort's followers.

And now Peter was at Hogwarts with Harry, just waiting for the moment to act, and no one knew it. Unless Remus had seen this paper. Remus would recognise Peter. But no; Sirius had only noticed because of his desire to soak up every detail of this brief glimpse of the outside world. Impulsively, he tore the picture from the paper and stuffed it into the pocket of his faded robes.

It was up to him to protect Harry. But how? He shifted form and paced the cell, trying to think human thoughts in dog form.

He would have to escape. That was all there was to it. But no one had ever escaped from Azkaban before.

No one has ever stayed sane after twelve years in this place either, he thought with a bark of laughter. Well, relatively sane.

Over the next few days, he began to formulate a plan. He barely slept, but when he did, his sleep was even more uneasy than usual. He spent most of the night tossing and turning, visions of Peter skulking among the stones of Hogwarts swimming through his fevered brain.

Instinctively, he knew that if he was going to manage an escape, the plan would have to hinge on his Animagus ability. It was the only advantage he had over the other madmen in this place. And he was going to have to be as clearheaded and cunning as he had ever been. There was no room for error, and he was not going to get more than one chance, if that.

The first trick would be getting them to open his cell door. House-elves came in to clean the cells only very occasionally, since most of the Azkaban upkeep could be done by magic. Besides, he could not transform in front of the house-elves without at once blowing his cover and causing an almighty kerfuffle, to which the Ministry would be immediately alerted.

He would have to think of a way to get the Dementors to open his cell. They were blind, and could not detect the difference in his form; only that of his mind and emotions. But how to entice the Dementors to unlock the cell?

He knew the answer almost at once, but he wasted almost three days trying to think of an alternative, hoping there was some other way, and knowing there was not. The black clad guards of Azkaban had come into his cell in the past on a few occasions, and it would be a very simple thing to get them to do so again.

In his first months at the prison, he had naively tried to cloak himself in happy memories, hoping to keep the cold horror and dread of the place at bay. He had tried to call to mind the colour of Remus's eyes, and the shape of his smile, the sound of his laugh, and the taste of his lips. But such memories proved elusive, and only served to summon the Dementors to him. They would throng in close, sating themselves on these happy recollections before he could touch them himself.

Eventually, he had learned to discipline his mind. For more than ten years, he had done his best not to think any happy thoughts about Remus at all. He had not been uniformly successful, of course, but he had quickly learned to shy away from the more pleasant recollections. Thoughts of Remus would be enough to draw the Dementors into his cell. But would he be able to summon the presence of mind to transform with those horrors crowded in close around him? He had to try.

At last, quaking with dread, every muscle in his body tensed, he set about removing the lock on the door inside his head labeled "Moony".

At first, nothing came.

It's been too long, he thought despairingly. I've forgotten too much.

But then, before his closed eyes, he saw a pair of long-lashed brown eyes gazing back at him. Brown eyes, their corners crinkled with laughter, and below them the grin tinged with just a touch of wickedness, which only Sirius ever got to see. Sunlight filtering through honey-brown hair. The curving shadow of a collarbone glimpsed within a casually unbuttoned shirt collar. Warm, calloused fingers brushing against his skin -

When the cold closed in, making the breath catch in his throat, he tried to ignore it. He gritted his teeth when his mind tried to shy away, and ruthlessly forced himself to think about tracing the scars on warm, pale skin that shivered beneath his touch.

He could hear the rattling breath of the Dementors in the passage outside his cell, and the anguished cries of his fellow inmates up and down the corridor, but he pushed them from his mind. Instead, he focused all his attention on recalling Remus's husky voice.

"You smell like chocolate, Padfoot," he was saying with a soft laugh. "Do you taste like it, too, I wonder?"

A heavy iron key scraped in a rusty lock, and Sirius unclenched his jaw enough to say, "I love you, Moony." He opened his eyes. "Kiss me."

Three Dementors stood between him and the open door to his cell, rapidly obscured by the white mist rising in his mind.

He looks down in front of him, to where Remus had been lying when his eyes were closed. Remus is still there, but pale as death, brown eyes fixed and sightless. Sirius is standing amidst the wreckage of James and Lily's house in Godric's Hollow. Five open graves gape at his feet.

"Put them in," says a cold voice behind him.

He spins around to see a tall, silver-haired wizard with cold red eyes and a cruel set to his mouth. He has one arm around Peter, whose wand is trained on Sirius.

"My Master said put them in, Sirius," says Peter, flicking his wand off to one side.

Sirius follows the wand with his eyes, and then he sees them. James, Lily holding little Harry, and Remus, leaning back to back, heads lolling. Sirius picks up Harry in his arms. The baby's body is cold and inert. Gently, he lowers him into the smallest of the graves. It is harder work dragging James, Lily, and Remus to their graves. At last, only one remains empty.

"That's yours, mate," says Peter smugly. "Get in, already."

Peter pokes him with his wand, and Sirius falls backward into the cold, dark earth. He is trapped. Peter is burying him alive. He has to escape. There is something he has to do, if only he can remember. He will have to dig his way out. Dig in the earth, like a dog. With his paws.

Paws?

With a yelp, he slipped forms, just as he felt icy breath against his face. A Dementor bent over him, hood lowered, mouth gaping. It paused, apparently confused by the sudden change it sensed in its prey.

Sirius was not about to wait around for it to make up its mind. Gathering his feet under him, he dodged the creature's clutching grasp, skidded around two more Dementors and flew out into the passageway.

There he paused, suddenly realising there was going to be more to it than just avoiding the guards. His paws were useless for opening heavy doors, and he could not risk transforming again inside the fortress, now that he was out of his cell. He was going to have to follow these foul creatures until he found a way out.

Sirius watched as the Dementors drifted out of his cell, pressing himself against the cold stone wall as they passed, hackles raised, suppressing a growl. Dementors were not, so far as he knew, deaf. When they opened the door into the next corridor, he followed them on the silent feet for which he was named.

It took him less time than he had anticipated to find his way out of the fortress. If the Dementors could not recognise the prisoner Sirius Black in his canine emotions, they could certainly recognise that he was no longer where he was supposed to be. They communicated in eerie silence, but their agitation was clear. Sirius knew they would be informing the Ministry of his disappearance shortly. He did not have much time.

It seemed, however, that none of the usual Wizarding methods of communication suited the Dementors. They did not speak, so Floo Powder was of no use to them. Nor did they possess any owls - no living creature will go near a Dementor if it has a choice in the matter. They would have to send one of their number to the Ministry with the news.

Sirius followed them down dank stone steps and through endless identical corridors. He slunk in the shadows next to the walls, with every step fighting his canine instincts which told him to get as far away from these horrible cold things as possible.

At last, they came to a corridor that smelled strongly of the sea. When the great iron door at the end creaked open and watery white sunlight poured through, Sirius lost his head. He bounded toward it, knocking over the Dementor which had opened the door and running right over the top of it, out into the misty, late morning sunlight.

He did not pause to bask, however; he had seen the horizon for the first time in a dozen years, and knew what it meant. Freedom. He had to get there.

Without hesitation, he plunged into the chilly waters of the North Sea, and began to paddle toward the distant coast of England.