c. a rising howl

The pressure inside his head abated and, at last, Sirius took in a long, lingering breath, and opened his eyes.

It was time.

In the weeks that had passed since he'd first seen Peter Pettigrew's photograph, hunger had come to have a whole new definition for Sirius. Every day, three times a day, the guard would levitate a tray of food through a slot in the bars, and every day Sirius would wait for the guard to move on, then take the tray, close his eyes, and dump the food in the Vanishing chamber pot. The sustenance in Azkaban could hardly be called as such—but, Merlin! The first days bit the hardest, like a thousand furious bugs in his belly gnawing and pinching and crawling about, driving him mad despite his best efforts to ignore it. He sipped water and tried to savor every drop, concentrating on his plan.

Every day, Sirius stared at the bars of his cell and thought about all the feasts he'd attended in the past. He missed pumpkin juice the most, surprisingly; he missed the spice of it, the sudden, unexpected sweetness, the depth of flavor. Remus—oh God, Remus—had never been much of a fan, preferring a good cuppa, but James—James, I'll kill him for what he's done to you and—had loved it. All the best meals of his life were taken in the Great Hall, sitting among his friends—his brothers, his—.

The Dementors preyed on the memories, of course. Sometimes Sirius wondered if he'd only imagined the taste of pumpkin juice, if it had always tasted like ashes on his tongue, if anything would taste right ever again. Food had a joy all its own. The guards could probably serve beef wellington and chardonnay and it'd all taste like shite.

He felt the Dementors drift off, their effects lessening, and knew it was time to go.

Every month or so, the guards of Azkaban had to be refreshed with a new unit from the mainland. The Ministry kept the whole bloody rock locked down—no Apparition, no Floo, all Charms in brooms set to fail, physical approaches by sea blocked unless scheduled by specific owls. The DMLE provided the Aurors and guards who lived in the fortress on the far levels where the Dementors didn't patrol. Sirius knew so much about their rotations because James—I'm so sorry, James—had done a one-month stint during his trainee days at the Aurory and had come home to Lily—Lily, please—gray as a ghost. He'd told Sirius all about it. The guards tip-toed about the edges in the prison, skirting the Dark creatures, but they still suffered the effects.

Sirius started to laugh at the irony and swallowed the noise, shaking his head. Not now, idiot.

Changing the guards meant a shift in the wards. It meant a very small, very slight window of opportunity existed and he was not about to let that chance go. Sirius kept quiet, listening to every lingering drip of water, every tired, shifting body and Bellatrix's caterwauling, eating part of his last meal for the energy. Merlin forbid he pass out halfway through his own escape attempt. He shoved gritty porridge into his mouth and swallowed without thought, a nervous, anxious energy souring his gut and quickening his pulse. The evening cast deeper shadows than usual upon the stone and, when he breathed, Sirius could taste the static hum of a summer storm in the air.

His hands shook as he removed the Prophet from the inside of his scraggly robes one last time. He looked at the moving photo a final time, lip curling, his resolve solidifying until it rested like a magnet inside his sternum, tugging him inexorably onward. Sirius folded the paper again and tucked it away. I'm coming for you, Peter.

The rush of his body morphing overcame him, and Sirius took a moment to let the sensation settle, enjoying how the heightened canine instinct dulled the drag of human sorrow and grief. He padded over to the bars and nosed about, sniffing, then put one leg through the slim opening. Whatever wizard had formed the bars hadn't done so flippantly; the allotted space proved nearly too small for an emaciated dog to pass through. Sirius grunted and wriggled, finally jumping over the bottom strut to put himself through the middle of the gate, letting gravity drag his front half down, twisting his hips and legs to yank them out after. A final, fur-ripping wrench dropped him to the floor with a dry thud.

Sirius winced as he rose on unsteady limbs and shook himself, hardly daring to believe that after twelve long years, he was finally—finally—outside of his cell.

The urge to run pell-mell like a madman was a hard one to resist. Free. He had to tell himself more than once not yet, not yet, because managing to shimmy his way out of the cell didn't mean he couldn't be thrown right back inside. He wasn't free. He wouldn't be free even if he put a thousand miles between himself and the cell because free men didn't have to go on the lam. Sirius sighed, breathing deep enough to make his ribs ache.

He turned his gaze to the dismal corridor, glad again for his better, canine eyesight and senses allowing him to see ahead. The breathing of his fellow inmates became more evident, most of them asleep aside from the mad bint herself cackling away. Sirius set a steady pace, the pads of his paws silent on the salt-encrusted floor, his ears perked for the approach of any wandering guards. Someone stirred in one of the black cells he passed, muttering, "I'm fecking see shite, I am…."

The stairs wended downward at a tight, crooked angle, like something a kid might draw in thick crayons on cheap parchment. His front foot missed one of the last steps and he tripped, going down in a tangle of limbs. Grunting, Sirius heaved himself upright again and surveyed the new hall, cataloging the doorways, the branching corridors. There were symbols carved into the bedrock—symbols that had been there long before anyone decided the place would make a good prison for Britain's worst witches and wizards. The elements had left long, drooling stains around the symbols all too reminiscent of dried blood.

He couldn't remember which way to go. It'd been twelve bloody years since he'd arrived and the head wound he'd attained in Peter's blast hadn't done his memory any favors. Pacing, Sirius made a circuit of the intersection and—figuring nothing out—whined low in his throat. Fuck. Which way—which way? He needed to go down, yes, but the bloody prison had been designed like some kind of sick death trap, he remembered that much. Passages looping in upon themselves, long aisles leading nowhere at all, stairs dropping into dead ends.

Get it together, Padfoot, Sirius chastised himself, knowing the window for his escape inched closed as time passed. He breathed in—and chased the fading smell of clean linens and wand polish, running from the main section of the tower down along the corridors set aside for the guards' usage. He found stairs there and a manual, Charmed lift he pointedly avoided. He had to stop once, ducking low into an alcove utilized as a makeshift broom cupboard as one of the sole guards left on duty paced by, muttering under her breath.

Sirius' claws clicked on the stone as he hurried, pausing only to smell the briny air and listen for approaching feet or signs of alarm. He kept on until the sound of waves on the rocks increased in volume, the vibration tangible under his paws, salt thick on his breath. The narrow, grungy passage opened onto a quiet barracks, most of the beds stripped bare and waiting for new tenants and linens, though one or two beds and accompanying cupboards remained occupied, evidence of the few guards left on duty during rotation. Sirius spotted a pair of robes thrown on a chair and, after checking again to make sure no one was about, turned back into a human long enough to yank the robes on over his filthy prison garb before turning back.

Almost there. Almost—.

Further investigation revealed a kitchen, and attached to that kitchen was the prize Sirius sought: a small door and transom utilized for food deliveries and personal packages, a way for the guards to get things without compromising the prison's main gates and security. Another quick shift allowed him to throw the locks, his whole body trembling, and suddenly the door came open and Sirius took his first steps outside of Azkaban.

It was almost too much. The wind buffeting his body bit down like the maw of some great tundra wolf and the water broke upon the rocks like roaring thunder. No gulls flew in the black sky, no weeds crept along the foundation; nothing survived on that horrid fucking island except for the Dementors, who even now Sirius could sense swarming in the distance, waiting for their chance to return. The frigid spray cut across his fur and Sirius flinched, then turned his face toward the feeling, relishing the new sensation.

Voices carried in the wind—not too close, but near enough for Sirius to hop from the narrow, winding path and scramble among the rocks, searching for the docks. He found them on the southern exposure—and, sure enough, the guards lingered there still, making moves to enter the prison and resume their duties. Sirius turned his attention to the horizon, knowing that was the way he needed to swim, but not a single light could be seen at this distance. Pinpricks of water fell from the amassing clouds and static lifted his matted fur; the storm waited overhead, the eye of it settled on Azkaban, the water still as it could be, but it wouldn't remain that way for long.

Noise on the path jerked Sirius' head around, and he cursed as he ducked under the swinging glow of a Lumos Charm.

"What're you doing?" the second guard walking the path to the side entrance asked the first, his voice older, gruffer.

"Thought I saw something," answered the first, and the light roved over the jagged, wet stones, gleaming like saliva on black teeth. Sirius didn't dare move. He didn't dare breathe.

"A seal or somethin'?"

"There aren't any bloody seals on Azkaban, you idiot."

The second huffed with indignation and his body crossed the light. "Well, you can stand out here with your thumb up your frozen arse staring at the rocks if you want, but I'm going in before the Dementors return. Colder than Circe's cunt out here…."

The younger Auror scoffed as the first moved on, but he followed soon after, his lighted wand sweeping over the embankment as he went. Sirius' heart didn't stop pounding against his ribs until they'd traveled far enough for him to drag his body out of the crevice he'd wedged himself in and scramble down the slope, his paws aching, limbs shaking, the din of voices just around the bend a constant threat. He sent a prayer Merlin before chancing one final leap off the steep embankment into the pitiless waters below.

Rocks banged against his legs and had he been in human form, Sirius swore he would have shrieked louder than Bellatrix when the cold knifed into him. He gasped and panted, kicking his feet against the slow tide trying to throw him right back into the stone wall behind him. Lunging against the breaking waves, Sirius cursed and the sound came out as a strangled growl, his body too light to push through the surging water, but he kept throwing himself forward again and again until—.

He crested the waves, and instead of drawing him toward the island, the tide swirled and whisked him farther into the sea, bobbing about like a leaky dingy desperate to stay afloat. Sirius couldn't see a bloody thing. The coming storm tightened its hold, inciting faster ripples in the swell, the colorless lights of Azkaban fading into the fog as the Dementors returned to their posts. Sirius kept swimming. He kept kicking and struggling because he couldn't go back, and so he moved forward no matter where the tide might take him, whether it be to land or to frozen, watery grave.

Exhaustion pulled at him as time went on and his weak, emaciated limbs fought the cold water. He didn't sink—his fur granting him better buoyancy than his wet robes would—but he swallowed more than enough salt water to make himself sick. Sirius swam—and swam, and swam—hope draining, the mist sinking lower and lower upon his dimming vision—but there! There! He saw it now, Muggle electric lamps like tea lights in a row, beckoning, and Sirius thrust himself toward the lure of land.

His toes brushed the shore and he sank his claws into the yielding sand, gasping for breath as he hauled himself those final few meters onto the dry, gritty sand and prickly vegetation. Rolling onto his back, Sirius shifted, the ragged panting of a dog replaced by a deeper, human wheeze. Sirius stared at the clouds overhead and—like an omen—they pulled apart just enough to reveal spots of the night sky, the North Star gleaming like a single, watchful eye wreathed in a grey, tattered tapestry.

He allowed himself to take it all in—the air, the water on his feet, the grass pressing against his sweating neck—and Sirius Black started to laugh.

x X x

Before Sirius made for the beach, before he crossed the waters but after he managed to crawl free of his cage, a form moved unbeknown to him in the opposing, lightless cell and bore witness to his escape.

Two golden eyes watched the dog squeeze through the gate and narrowed when it pulled free. Sirius loped off on quiet paws and after a minute of contemplation, the figure in the dark cell growled, dry lips pulling back over yellowed teeth too sharp to belong to a normal man.

The prisoner sat back, thinking. He eyed his dinner gone cold on its tray—and shoved the food away.


A/N: No one guessed right. Not exactly, anyway. No points to Slytherin.

Chapter 100! That's exciting! Thank you to everyone who spends time reading this fic of mine!

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