Chapter 30

Idle Hands are the Devil's Workshop

James Potter wore a look of pure unadulterated terror on his ashen face. He was lying flat on his back in a darkened room, whose contents were strewn about in a haphazard manner as if a tornado had blown through. His untidy black hair was freckled with dark red blood and his glasses sat askew on top of his broken nose. His front lip was swollen and a large cut had sliced open along his right cheek. The rest of his face sported an assortment of plum colored bruises. Screaming could be heard above him – something or someone was squealing in fright.

A large white hand raised up slowly, hung in the air, and then smashed down into James' face with alarming ferocity. James slid along a scratched hard wood floor and crumpled into a wall covered in flowery wallpaper. He struggled up into a crouch, defenseless, and began to whisper, "Help me…help me…somebody please…help me…"

A dark shadow loomed over James, stretched out ominously over his prone frame. Laughter – an unsettlingly evil timbre – was the only response his pleas received. James opened his eyes and looked up at the menacing specter. Fear and panic mixed with a grim realization of his impending fate.

"Please…Sirius…help me…"

…Sirius Black woke up with a start, a cold sweat on his brow even though his icy stone cell was well below zero. He began to cry and buried his face deep into his cold hands. I should have been there…

He had been imprisoned in Azkaban for only a few weeks, but time had come to a standstill and it already felt like a lifetime in his mind. What little sanity he had left was hanging by a thread and his body had already started to show startling signs of deterioration. He had lost over fifteen pounds, clumps of hair had begun to fall out and he hadn't showered once since his unceremonious arrival on the island. He had watched unbelievingly through his cramped cell window as someone had come to rescue Snape from this hell, but he had now come to the grim realization that no one would ever be coming for him.

He had been reliving nightmare after nightmare since his first night imprisoned within this stone fortress – his thoughts had been dominated by all his past regrets and transgressions: antagonistic fighting with his mother, scorn and disappointment given from his father, running away from home, strained relationships with his extended family, frustration and anger over Regulus' disappearance. But now his every moment had been tormented by his life's greatest blunder – his last minute decision that had cost James and Lily their lives.

Each dream – nightmare was a more apt description – ended with James' severely injured and begging for salvation. Why, oh why, did I have to go and change the plan at the last minute? Was I scared of the enormous responsibility? Had I cracked under the pressure of keeping such a precious secret?

No – Sirius Black was not a coward. He had truly believed switching Secret Keepers had been the right move – a stroke of genius at the eleventh hour! No one would ever have guessed Peter was to be entrusted with such important knowledge. The Death Eaters and the megalomaniac who ruled them would chase Sirius across the world and even if they did catch up to him, James and Lily would remain safe and sound. But alas, Sirius had encouraged his best friend to put his faith and trust in the wrong person – condemned James and what he loved most dear to a horrible fate.

What had happened that night? How had little Harry slay the dark terror that was Lord Voldemort?

Was Harry the chosen one? The Boy Who Lived – was he the savior of the wizarding world? Maybe it was fate, maybe destiny could never be changed, maybe Sirius was not to blame…?

As the weeks stretched into months, which inevitably funneled into years, Sirius was initially sustained by one thought – his innocence of his alleged crimes. He was no Death Eater, he didn't support He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, he had not murdered Pettigrew and taken twelve innocent lives.

But even the nourishing knowledge of his innocent eventually faded away, for he was guilty of other transgressions. His innocence eventually became a feeble belief and after a five years' time he began to lose his mind completely. Gone was the confident, handsome Gryffindor who had the world in the palm of his hand – the world was no longer his oyster. Gone was the sharp, acerbic wit that could enrage and captivate in one breath. The movie star looks and brilliant mind had been replaced by a broken shell of a man.

Sirius' long flowing black locks were now a filthy tangle of matted hair. There was an ever present film of grime and muck that clung to his skeletal frame and his skin was dotted with persistent sores. He became accustomed to the smell of urine and feces that permeated his cell, now his only friends were the vilest of insects and rodents. His eyes had a permanent glossy look to them – cataracts were beginning to develop over his black pupils, threatening to snuff out what little intelligence remained lurking within them.

Sirius developed a persistent cough, with each breath now accompanied with blood and mucus. His muscles had deteriorated long ago and Sirius had completely pushed past the point of emaciation. His belly was distended and he could not remember the taste of simple foods like chicken or rice.

But even though his appearance and health was beyond the pale, the state of his mind was worse. He could not remember the simplest of tasks and was slowly reverting back to a childish state. He would laugh and cry in no discernible pattern and began talking to the cold night air. His crazy, unintelligible conversations would ring out through the night, terrifying even the hardened criminals in other cells.

Eventually Sirius' mind began to take him back to his past, the only refuge it could find on the bleak rock that was Azkaban. He began imagining that James and Remus visited him to chat about their classes that day, Peter would stop by for some advice on his charms homework. On many nights Sirius played chess with Regulus, talking contentedly with his brother about their bright futures – a happy relationship that had never existed. He even dreamt Snape would drop by from time to time and mock him as though Sirius was in detention and not trapped a prison cell. Once the hallucinations ended he would slowly regain some control of himself and realize that none of it was real…but eventually he began to welcome and perpetuate the fantasies, lonely as he was.

The conditions in his cell were among the harshest in the prison. He was kept in isolation on the topmost floor, the other cells near him purposely kept vacant. Round the clock guards, sucking up every morsel of happiness that would manifest from within him. Intermittent showers, non-existent room to exercise, and lack of food were just some of the deplorable conditions he was subjected to.

Ministry officials would stop by the island intermittently to ostensibly check on the prison conditions, but no one felt much remorse for how the convicted killer was treated. They would badger him with a few questions about Lord Voldemort and then ridicule him, for many had lost close friends to the Death Eaters. "He's gone completely nutty" was the common report taken back to the Ministry.

In his sixth year of internment, Sirius Black finally went insane.

His sanity had completely slipped away – the complete isolation and lack of proper nourishment had finally broken the proud Gryffindor. He joined in with the twisted chorus coming from the other cells, high pitched laughter that lacked all sensibility or mirth. He screamed at nothing and at everything. He held conversations with the dementors, with his rotted food, even with the stone walls of his cell.

One dark and stormy night Sirius was engaged in a fun conversation with his fellow Marauders – laughing and joking around, talking smack and planning their next adventure at Hogwarts.

"Come off it Padfoot, Cersei wants nothing to do with you!"

"Yes she does, she can't take her eyes of him!"

"I heard you made out with her instead of going to the dungeons and finishing your detention!"

"Detention? What did the idiot do this time?"

"Gave some Slytherin and Ravenclaw seventh-years red and gold whiskers before the last Sunday feast! A poor Hufflepuff student was initially blamed for it!"

The four friends rolled around in laughter – there's not a care in the world when you're a teenager and having fun with your friends. They were the gang of four. They were the Marauders. They owned Hogwarts.

"Come now, it's almost the full moon! Let's get going!"

The hallucination was so real, Sirius truly believe the three figments in front of him transformed into a stag, a rat and a werewolf. With a sickening crunch, Sirius transformed into a large black dog and bounded after his friends. There was a loud thud, an ear splitting crash – Sirius had sprinted head first into the stone wall of his cell, cracking bones and fracturing his skull.

He woke up hours, maybe days later. As a hazy pain fog lifted, his senses were assaulted by a litany of sights and sounds – he could feel throbbing pain, taste fresh blood, smell rotting food. He tried to stand up but his legs were not following his commands. He looked down and saw fur – he was a dog! My God, I've gone completely around the bend!

It took a few minutes for the shock and incomprehension to wear off, and finally Sirius realized he had transformed into his animagus form. He found that the dementors' gloomy aura did not penetrate his being that easily when he was Padfoot. He could sense things clearly, it was if a cold fog had slowly been lifted from his mind.

His head was ringing something fierce, his skull felt as though it had been split open, but he had his wits about him again. He licked up what remained of the rotting food and closed his eyes. It felt good to be able to think somewhat clearly again.

By the twelfth year of his wrongful incarceration Sirius Black had settled into a comfortable, albeit boring routine. And today was no different.

Padfoot groggily opened his eyes – dim sunlight had penetrated the ever-present clouds that surrounded the island and was seeping into his cell. He gave a great big yawn, running his long pink tongue across razor sharp teeth. He uncurled his body from the tightly wound ball he always tucked himself into before falling asleep on the cold floor his cell. He stretched his long limbs as much as he could, for his cell was uncomfortably small – an odd kind of animalistic yoga.

He let out a long howl and began gnawing on a pile of bones in a corner, leftover trophies from rats he had become adept at catching. He trotted over to a small window and stood up on his hind legs – a small basin composed of broken stone and metal had been crafted and was rigged up just outside the window sill. A night's worth of fresh rain had collected and Padfoot swallowed the precious water up with a few big slurps.

Thirst slaked, he dropped down from the window sill and began scratching at the cell door, shaking his muzzle and letting out small whines. Soon the door slowly opened and a dementor floated in. Scabbed and rotting hands appeared from beneath a dark cloak and dropped a small tray of rotting food and muddy water onto the cold cell floor. The tray hit the ground with a crash, spilling most of its contents onto the dirty floor.

The dementor could barely sense this particular prisoner anymore. It could sense a very weak life force in the cell, dearth of any happiness with barely a trace of any kind of emotion. With such a weak life force, surely this wizard would soon perish. The dementors could barely sense Sirius when he was Padfoot, let alone affect his mind. The unregistered animagus had discovered a way to cope with the dark aura of the dementors that drove most men insane.

The dementor swept around the small cell, and satisfied the being in the cell was simply weak and not dead, turned to leave. As it slid shut the cell door it didn't sense the large skinny dog that padded out of the cell right behind it. Sirius Black was a high security prisoner and the Ministry demanded that two dementors always stand guard outside his cell. But dementors were fickle creatures and the Ministry had no real control over them. They roamed free on Azkaban, drawn to the freshest prisoners still full of emotion. Black had been emitting such a low life force ever since he discovered the protection afforded to him when he transformed, that his guards frequently abandoned their post to be closer to more 'tasty' prisoners. Today was no different.

The black dog watched the dementor lock the door and then float away towards another cell, where terrified screams were echoing forth. Today Padfoot felt compelled to visit the tenth floor and check in on his cousin. He padded down a long stone hallway, passing a blind dementor guard every so often. The dementors would float right by him, barely able to feel his canine presence.

Padfoot could still feel some of the gloom they reflected, but it was nothing like the depression and pain he experienced as Sirius. He came to a large metal gate and had to patiently wait until a dementor floated by and opened it, making its hourly guard rounds. The dog slipped through the gate and descended a few floors till he found the hallway he was looking for.

He stopped near the farthest cell on the floor, where several dementors floated excitedly in front of it. He had hoped to get a look at the current state of Bellatrix Lestrange – her unkempt and miserable appearance always gave him a fleeting moment of satisfaction. He would sometimes whisper to her, twisting her mind and putting a fright in her. She wasn't always affected by his visits though, sometimes Padfoot wondered if she actually liked it here. But today it seemed as though she was having one of her infamous fits. Her screams and yells had attracted a flock of dementors, the black clad demons drawn to the pain and frustration emanating from the witch.

Disappointed, Padfoot headed back down the hallway. Maybe he could sneak down to the first floor and watch the swirling ocean for a while. The waves had a soothing, calming effect on his frayed nerves – the closest thing he had found to a relaxing sight in this hell. But when he reached the large circular stairwell that ran through the center of the prison, he heard something that made his blood freeze. The large black dog looked around in panic, the gate to the floor was locked and there were no dementors in sight.

Padfoot began barking madly and roughly pawing at the gate. Voices began to rise from below – normal human voices, not the guttural sounds that came from the dementors!

His incessant barking finally caught the attention of a patrolling dementor. It opened the gate and floated around, trying to sense the cause of the commotion. Padfoot bounded past the creature, knocking it to the ground. The dog looked back as it raced up the stairs – the dementor's hood had fallen away and two scabbed over eye slits set deep in a gleaming skull looked wildly around. Padfoot panted hard as he took the stairs five at a time, the voices below spurring him faster and faster.

When he reached the topmost floor, mercifully, the gate was ajar. He raced through it and skidded to a stop outside his cell, no dementors in sight. He could hear the voices from below, heard the name Sirius Black mentioned, and began to whine in panic. He pawed at the door, but it wouldn't budge.

The voices were clearer now, he could hear Fudge's nasally voice tinged with fear while being in the presence of the dementors. Padfoot through his body at the bars of the cell door, forcing his skinny frame through the bars. He pushed with all his might, squeezing his body through. It felt as though his ribs would break, his lungs squished empty of air – he would become trapped between the bars, caught in his animagus form. The repercussions would be swift, his precious secret uncovered.

Pop! Padfoot slipped through the bars just as Fudge rounded into the hallway, flanked by a cadre of aurors and dementors.

The Minister of Magic would later recount how unnerved he was at the sight of Black that day. Most of the prisoners sat in a dark corner of their cell, rocking back and forth, muttering unintelligible gibberish, or were so wracked with grief they could barely speak. But when Black's cell door slid open, Fudge found himself face to face with a seemingly…normal man.

Yes, Black was filthy – wretched and caked with grime. Yes, he was gaunt, emaciated and malnourished. His cell was a pit of squalor and his robes barely more than a few dirty threads. But his eyes…they shone with a bright, dark intelligence that should have been extinguished, snuffed out by the dementors long ago.

Fudge was quite unsettled by the calm, even polite, demeanor Azkaban's most notorious prisoner exhibited. He left the cold cell a few minutes later, leaving Black with a timid wave, curt goodbye and a copy of the day's Daily Prophet. Black's playful smile slid off his face as Fudge left him and the cell door slid shut.

He stared down at the paper in uncomprehending shock. His headed pounded in confusion, his eyes became unfocused – he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Nausea whirled within his belly and bile rose in his throat. His thoughts became a jumbled mess, feelings and emotions he thought abandoned him long ago came flooding back – long dormant whales of passion burst from within him and breached the surface.

Sirius slumped to the floor with a terrible wail. His cries were loud and screeching – the pain they represented drew dementors like flies to honey. He unleashed welled up angst that had been building for twelve long years. Sirius had come to accept his unjust captivity, he had come to terms with his lot in life. He had decided to live out his remaining years on this bleak rock without putting up a fight – to spend the majority of his pathetic life as a dog, subsisting on rodents, insects and rotten food. He believed this miserable fate was penance for his one great mistake.

But his acceptance of this grim future hinged on one incontrovertible fact – the true traitor to James had paid the ultimate price for his deception. Sirius' mind raced back to that day so long ago – he had cornered Peter on that crowded street. But what had he truly seen? He had seen the crater blown into the street, saw the dead bodies, the blood and the gore…but he had never seen the traitor's body. What a fool he was! He had underestimated Peter back then, had been underestimating him still lo' these many years!

Anger, frustration and hate flowed through Sirius. A group of frenzied dementors had congregated at the entrance to his cell, sharks gathering to the fresh scent of blood in the water. The cell door rattled and began to slide open, the dementors wanted a taste that had been denied for so long. Sirius looked down at the paper on the ground, Wormtail sitting on the shoulder of a young boy. As the dementors closed in on him in a swirling black mass, Sirius began screaming one phrase over and over again.

He would repeat it as sick mantra over and over again for the next few weeks – utter it when he was awake and mutter it in his sleep. The same phrase over and over again. He would repeat it as he slipped through his cell bars, snuck down the long, spiral stair case and skulked down the front steps of Azkaban. It would replay over and over in his mind as he impossibly braved the rough waters of the North Sea and navigated thousands of miles of hilly land in the English countryside.

The phrase kept him warm on cold nights, kept him satisfied when he went without food, kept him lucid while his current plight threatened to turn him insane.

"He's at Hogwarts…he's at Hogwarts…he's at Hogwarts…"