Chapter 6:
Life in Azkaban


"Keep your damn hands on the wall!" The Auror yelled.

Sirius made a show of rubbing his wrists as the shackles fell to the ground; a small act of disobedience before complying and putting his palms flat against the stone wall all the same. The guard punished him for the show by giving him another pat down before shoving him into the hall.

It was a charade of course, it wouldn't do to have people suspect he could slip out of his shackles at any time, nor that he did so regularly. That privilege would be taken away faster than a golden Snitch charmed friction-less and fired from a cannon. His secret identity as Padfoot must be kept a secret.

The line of prisoners stretched for nearly a quarter mile and echoed with waves of childish glee. Many of them were quite literally bouncing on their toes as they waited for the guards to finish opening the cells behind them. You see, today was a special day. Today was Wednesday. That might not mean much to normal people, but for prisoners in Azkaban Wednesdays are a holiday resembling the illegitimate lovechild of Christmas and the end of lent. A day off from the torture of their cells. A day in which the dementors are removed from the prison for 'debriefing' - codeword for a process much more disgusting than the euphemism would imply. Most importantly it was a day that all prisoners were brought to the surface to bask in the sun while enjoying luxuries brought in specifically for the event.

This might seem like a kindness at first glance, but it was not done for the sake of the prisoners. It was done to keep the dementors sated with renewed happy memories to feed off of. Most prisoners could not, for the life of them, remember anything from any prior Wednesday. Sirius could. There's a trick to it, but it almost isn't worth the effort.

It may also seem odd that this is done on Wednesday instead of Sunday like every other place in Western civilization. The reason for this, to quote the Warden - "In the off-chance the bible isn't a load of horse-shit intended to keep the downtrodden from hanging their illegitimate rulers by their entrails, I don't want to risk any of your immortal souls being saved. It's hell for you dirtbags."

Sirius could respect that, though he suspected the reason was more practical. No sane person would willingly spend a Sunday interviewing dementors or babysitting convicted murderers and rapists.

Asking said warden why the equally more likely Friday or Saturday wasn't chosen for the day off would elicit similar concerns about the religions of 'Pinocchio-nosed self-victimized usurious misers' and 'Bacha bazi raping, baby-mutilating goat fuckers' who reserved those respective days for worship. Most of the prisoners would love the man for his deliciously vicious misanthropy if they weren't subject to his rule. Sirius loved him for his uncanny ability to twist the once beautiful language of his motherland into the most scathing of insults and bile-raising descriptions creating something altogether new and beautiful in its own way.

Falsely imprisoned or not, Sirius fully intended to flood Azkaban's mailbox with love letters to the withered goblin should he ever live beyond its walls again.

So yeah. Wednesdays are nice.

It took another ten minutes for the Aurors to work their way to the end of the hall behind him and only then did they shuffle along towards the exit.
Sirius exchanged a glance with his younger brother. The two were dying to discuss this Horcrux issue in detail, but it wasn't a conversation to have by yelling to each-others cells when dozens of criminals and marked Death Eaters are within earshot. Sirius knew what a Horcrux was - vaguely - in that it was a one-way ticket to making out with a dementor if you are discovered to have made one. Not that you'd find the legislation stating such.

Secretly making something illegal and punishable by the utter destruction of your soul would be repulsive in any other scenario, but in this instance, Sirius heartily approved of the Ministry's decision.

The rusted steel door at the end of the hall opened to a wide cavern somewhat reminiscent of the Hogwarts grand staircase; If that staircase were made up of hundreds of salvaged fire escape ladders lazily strung about and capable of asexually reproducing and multiplying well beyond the cavern's capacity. The walls were embedded with decrepit steel doors with massive turn dials where the stairs met stone. All were likely salvaged from Muggle military vessels run ashore of the prison during the great wars. Those were some unfortunate allied sailors. Were.

They ascended the stairs slowly. The eerie carvings on the sections of walls free of doors were eroded from centuries, if not millennia, of rain. Despite the wear, they still resembled the faces they once depicted, though they now looked to be in agony and misery, strongly adding to the total despair of the place. Most of the prisoners, made jumpy from years of incarceration, moved at an annoyingly slow pace as they no doubt hallucinated the carvings moving or speaking to them.

Progress was slow but they eventually reached the top of the staircase just shy of a ceiling inlaid with a Quidditch pitch sized vault door. The top step of the stairs leveled off into a wide catwalk where they were instructed to line up as the vault door opened. The clicking and grinding of gears, locks and other internal mechanisms Sirius couldn't begin to comprehend drowned out the metal thuds of the prisoner's footsteps as the vault door opened, flooding the prison with fresh air and sunlight.

The platform they stood on rose in conjunction with the vault splitting and they reached the surface just as the door finished opening.
Sirius took a deep breath as the hills along the horizon waved at him like a friendly cashier.

The island of Azkaban was larger than most would suspect. Whereas most people imagined a single spire jutting out of a stone outcropping like Rockall - which is true when submerged during high tide - on clear days it more resembled Lundy, but rounder and flatter. Patches of dirt accumulated on the rocky surface resembling ancient roman roads gave birth to patches of grass and the odd tree or two between massive four-story walls of similar design and in a similarly derelict state as the prison proper, which themselves enclosed the entire island.

Tents and modern constructions blocked out most of the horizon, which itself was blocked by the black walls which did nothing to hide the delicious smell of the open sea. Nobody knew who built the walls, nor the paved surface of the island, nor the deep tunnels beneath the vault doors. It was presumed to be the same people who carved the faces into the walls inside.

Many believe clues to the builder's identity could be found in the sealed off areas in the deepest sections of the prison, but nobody thought it was important enough to risk whatever dangers lurked below. Fear of the unknown and all that. There was a universal but unstated agreement among wizards that knowledge of the people who built Azkaban was better left buried in the unexplored tunnels and causeways.

Their block was lead across the field to the edge of the island where they stood before the outer wall. Painted upon its surface was a bright red tree that on close inspection was made up entirely of bloodied handprints whose color neither fades nor washes away, another mystery of the island better left alone.

The Warden, a nasty goblin by the name of Caltrop, stood there waiting for their arrival.

He carried a large Knobkerrie which he held in front of him like a cane. It was a type of club made of goblin silver and had a core of acromantula spinneret and with which they had all seen him wield magic like that of wizards. It was not a wand. Goblins are not allowed to have wands. By every legal standard it was not a wand. All registered documents regarding the weapon made it very clear that it was not a wand.

But if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck and bites like a duck, is it not a duck?

Long tables manned by junior Aurors or Aurors in training sported all manner of food donated by relatives or friends of the incarcerated. There were also a dozen curtained stalls with piles of clean prison fatigues beside it.

After each person had taken a scalding hot shower and changed into clean clothes they were lined up in front of the row of tables and given trays with indented cavities to load up on food.

Each dish in the prison potluck had the names of the donator attached to it, along with a small message to the person whose benefit it was donated. Cissy always made sure to donate a myriad of fancy soups to Regulus, Sirius and Bellatrix. Dromeda too sent hearty and more filling dishes for her sister and cousins. Bless their souls, but the former black sisters still cared for them all. Even though Cissy knew Sirius had fought against Voldemort, and Andromeda surely felt appalled by Bellatrix' crimes, the love was still there.

Misses Goyle and Grabbe would always send homemade confectionaries and massive ham roasts, respectively.

The brothers Black shuffled down the aisle, taking their position at the back of the line and making sure to remain close as they filled up their trays. Reading the missives along the way proved mostly futile, as the usual death eater sympathizers were never very verbose in their attempts to cheer the prisoners up.

Sirius did notice one oddity, a donation of stuffed chocolate truffles identifying Fenrir Greyback as the recipient. The werewolf leader had never gotten a donation before, and if that weren't odd enough the gift was from a person writing under a pseudonym.

To recognize the indignity of being caged like feral, howling beasts, I offer your packed contingency this most delicate of treats.
Sincerely,

The Half-Blood Prince.

What a pompous moniker. Sirius was sure he and this Prince fellow wouldn't get along well in person, but perhaps the fact it was sat beside the usual platter of handmade sushi Snivellus donated to Reggie was discoloring his first impression. That his old nemesis was still best friends with his brother was a point of contention on the rare occasions they talked.

He loaded his tray up with these truffles and forewent the sushi. He'd jump into a lake of inferi before eating food prepared by the potions master, especially food involving raw meat. It was near the end of the table that they finally got to Andromeda's cast iron pot of sweet, corned beef, but despite it looking and smelling like heaven, it was the two people manning it that caught Sirius' and Regulus's attention.

It was a girl, barely out of Hogwarts. Her heart-shaped face and almond eyes looked so very familiar, though her lime-green hair and unnaturally perfect skin made her look decidedly odd. He would have chocked up the porcelain skin to makeup or a glamour if he wasn't adept at identifying both and noticed she had neither.

He got a distinct feeling in his gut that he knew this girl. The black man behind her, however, was someone he definitely knew.

"Kingsley." Sirius greeted with a nod.

"Sirius." He greeted back with a similar nod.

Gotta hand it to him, despite the bad blood between the two former Order members he kept a polite and respectful demeanor. Still, he couldn't quite shake his curiosity for the girl.

"Who?.." Sirius asked vaguely as he took in her too-perfect features.

She was pretty, sure, but she didn't command his interest as most beautiful women did. Possibly because of her young age, but more likely the feeling that he knew her. Reggie figured it out first though.

"Nymphadora!" His brother exclaimed as he snapped his fingers in realization.

And when her lime green hair turned a fiery red he recognized their niece as well.

"My god! We haven't seen you since you were seven!" Sirius gushed.

She was still a cute pouter too.

"Did you help with the food?" Sirius pressed on. "I seem to remember Dromeda having a hard time teaching you to cook when I last visited, but you always did love making uncle Siri taste your attempts at cookies."

She outright snarled at him, and as she opened her mouth to retort Sirius noticed Kingsley write something on a tiny notepad as he observed.
Ah, so this was a psychological evaluation of the girl. See how she responds to the emotional distress of being exposed to her horrific relatives. Kinda screwed up when you think about it.

"... -ink I would ever make food for you!?" Nym's response broke through his thought.

"Sorry, what now?" Sirius asked her to repeat herself.

She shrugged.

"I'm not in the habit of cooking food for murderers, uncle Siri! So no, none of this was my handiwork." Nym went on. "Gone on any Muggle killing sprees lately?"

"Can't recall ever murdering Muggles in my life, actually." Sirius retorted. "I think you might have me confused for somebody else. In fact, I've never murdered anybody save for Death Eaters."

And three of his best friends. He left that unstated.

He was brought back to reality when Kingsley, of all people, broke his calm countenance and snorted.

"I'm sure your conviction records are proof enough to the contrary of that claim, Sirius." His deep booming voice.

"Conviction records!" Regulus jumped back into the conversation. "You finally get your day in court recently Siri? Why didn't you tell me they finally convicted you for the crime you were imprisoned for? Congratulations!"

He slapped Sirius hard on the back to accentuate his sarcastic acting, but Sirius somehow managed to smother a grin.

"Actually no. Twelve years in Azkaban and I still haven't seen the inside of a courtroom." Sirius said before locking eyes with Kingsley. "You might want to look into that, Shacklebolt."

Their trays were as full of food as they were going to get, and that was as good a place as any to leave the conversation off at, so they excused themselves. Just before they were far enough away to be out of earshot Sirius decided to put in one last barb.

"Oh and Kingsley!" The man turned at being called to. "You might also want to look into who the Potters made as secret keeper. Because I declined the role."

There. Let him chew on that. Even if he didn't believe him the claim of innocence would surely reach Dumbledore. And the old man wouldn't be able to prevent himself from at least coming in to see him and promptly getting him a trial. Win or lose one way or another he was getting out of Azkaban. The time for wallowing in guilt was over. He needed out. If he got cleared, he'd go straight to his Godson. Make things right. If his guilt was determined and he finally got his sentencing? Well, a prison with a flawless record sounded like a challenge to break out of, and Sirius liked challenges.

They sat on a small outcropping of boulders away from everyone else and dug into the food.

They remained silent as they ate, observing their fellow prisoners. Bellatrix sat alone in the shade of a nearby tree, her tray empty save for a bowl of sweet, corned beef in mashed potatoes. The usual madness she wore was gone, replaced by a solemn expression as she stared at the food, unseeing. So far, she had never once actually eaten her sister's food.

Best to leave her to her moping.

The closest group to the two brothers was Fenrir's gang, a group of former werewolf pack leaders who had been captured and imprisoned along with the child eater. The quartet of werewolves were preoccupied with eating the chocolate truffles with expressions of orgasmic joy on their faces
"Isn't chocolate supposed to be deadly to dogs and wolves?" Reggie asked offhandedly.

Sirius snickered, but curiosity winning out he ditched working through Narcissa's cream of spinach soup and popped one of the truffles into his mouth. And promptly spat it back out into his hand.

It wasn't so much disgusting as it was too much if a shock of overpowering flavor. In fact, he had to chew on it a second time to even decipher what was wrong with it, before spitting it back out.

Whoever this Half-Blood Prince guy was must have been rather well off because he had stuffed the truffle with all six varieties of, well, truffles. Usually, you grated the fungal variety of truffles into something like spagghetti, or potatoes, as a sort of cheese substitute. In fact, his father had always likened it to a very expensive variety of cheese, best paired with actual expensive cheese and wine.

All mixed together and put into a chocolate truffle, however? That took a special kind of humor. Perhaps he was wrong about this Half Blood Prince fellow. He had an interesting sense of humor. Still, his chocolates were awful. At least the person he sent it too was certainly enjoying it. Maybe it was cooked with werewolves in mind? Sirius seemed to recall Remus enjoying some types of dog treats and raw meat when the full moon approached, and if Sirius' mental lunar calendar was correct then they were two days away from having to listen to their block-mate's monthly howling.

Perhaps he ought to sneak one back to his cell and eat it as Padfoot? It had always been a trip experimenting with food as a dog before, but would the chocolate poison him like a normal dig?

"Oi!" Regulus yelled to the group of cannibals.

The four of them turned their attention to the brothers Black and Regulus tossed his handful of chocolates over to them where they tumbled to the ground at their feet. Sirius repeated this action. Fenrir gave them a dour nod in thanks before calmly bending down to retrieve the chocolates from where they landed and distribute them equally amongst his gang.

Now that they were satisfied that nobody was within eavesdropping distance the pair turned to the topic at hand.

"So. About this Horcrux." Sirius prompted.

And Regulus told him everything. The lending of Kreacher. The lake of inferi. The potion of nightmares and the locket, the close escape and his nearly burning down Grimmauld Place with fiendfyre. Fiendfyre which lead to his own arrest after it got out of his control and spread from the back yard to burn down half a block of houses.

"And you're quite sure it was destroyed by the flames?" Sirius asked when the tale was finished.

"Positive." Regulus nodded. "I reduced that locket to a twisted mass of metal and screaming black smoke. The piece of the Dark Lord's soul within it was most definitely destroyed."

Sirius sighed and scratched his head at the conundrum.

"So how could he possibly have come back if I destroyed his anchor to life?" Regulus prompted.

Sirius' answer came through his mouth before it even registered in his mind.

"Stab in the dark, maybe he made more than one?"

Regulus paled at the suggestion and Sirius felt the blood drain from his own face as he fully grasped the meaning of what he just said. And so, the conversation turned to means of escape and methods for tracking the other ones down.

All the while they plotted, the pair seemed to forget a rather important fact about werewolves.

You see, werewolves, like goblins, have excellent hearing. Great for listening in on conversations from far away.


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