It was frigidly cold, and filled with everything Harry would much rather have forgotten.
The bodiless guards floated nearby, their icy reaches clawing deep into every cell. Harry tried his best to shut out the moans and pained cries around him, while the horror of his own immortality threatened to overwhelm him. The Dementors couldn't produce more of a negative emotion than the reality created by Voldemort already had. He would live as long as, or perhaps even longer since no one knew the details of a human Horcrux, than Voldemort - and that meant that he would never see his family. He would never meet his parents: the fiery Lily, and the prankster James; and he would never see Sirius or Remus again, either.
He'd thought losing to Voldemort would mean death. It hadn't. It meant being tossed into Azkaban when he continued fighting for everything he knew, because Voldemort had already sensed what Dumbledore had long since known - the Horcrux that lay within him was yet another of his ties to the living world, and not something Voldemort would sacrifice, even for a brat that attempted to threaten his existence whenever possible.
The Dark Lord, or perhaps he was now the Dark Overlord, and sent him to a cell, and ordered the Dementors not to feast on his soul - even if they did torture him. Harry wondered if Voldemort knew that existing in this cell, untouched by the Dementors yet able to hear the cries of his friends that had already had their souls removed, was more torturous than being forced to stand by Voldemort's side as he tortured and killed the remnants of the Order.
Harry very much preferred that helplessness, and occasional torture when Harry managed to attempt to stop him, because it meant that he could be fighting the entire way; that he was doing something that meant that the resistance was still alive. He could do nothing here.
His voice didn't reach into any of their nightmares. Reassurances didn't help while being trapped in a loop of your deepest fears. Harry didn't know if the rest of the prisoners heard him or not, but they never replied, and all Harry could do was pray that there was never a day when all of Azkaban turned silent.
It was a little selfish, perhaps, to not want to be alone and surrounded by the Dementors; to make sure the Dementors' full concentration wasn't on him, rather spread out over several people. Ron had already been taken away, muttering incoherently under his breath about spiders and butterflies. Harry knew that didn't mean well for his best friend. The most of the Weasley family had been ambushed at the Burrow while the trio had been out hunting Horcruxes. Bill and Fleur had survived, and gone into hiding at Shell Cottage; the last of what had been the large Weasley family.
Hermione was still somewhere in the depths of Azkaban. He hadn't seen or heard anything from her, but if they hadn't dragged her out yet, it meant that she still had her soul and was at least partially sane. That was all the hope Harry had left.
AN:
The Golden Snitch [Uagadou, Biloko] – Tasmanian Time – Convicts: Write a story set in Azkaban
Somewhat similar to the first one. Maybe I'll try and combine them...