Chapter One Hundred Two
Prisons and Cellars
I hurt myself today, To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain, The only thing that's real
What have I become? My sweetest friend
Everyone I know, Goes away in the end
Beneath the stains of time, The feelings disappear
You are someone else, I am still right here
(Hurt - Johnny Cash)July 31st, 1993Far away, on an island in the North Sea, sat a man in a prison cell. Just one of many
prisoners lost in a blur of dirty clothes and empty eyes; just one of many prison cells lost
in a blur of dirty floors and empty water buckets. Empty because the water could be used
for drinking or bathing but not both. Somehow dehydration trumped filth, though it had
been known that several prisoners chose death in the end; that is, if they could get away
with it before some Auror had them stunned, bound, and brought before a Healer. It
usually took just a few days before they were back to survivable health, living in their own
filth once again and wishing for death.
Sirius Black never wished for death.
During the first year, he wished for nothing but vengeance. The following five years,
he wished to be left alone, which worked out in his favour as there was no one—not even
in Azkaban—who wanted to associate with him. Aurors, Healers, and visiting officials
thought him to be a secret Death Eater, You-Know-Who's supposedly favourite servant, the
man who betrayed the Potters. Actual Death Eaters living in Azkaban with him knew the
truth, knew of his innocence, though none would say a word in his defence. Even if they
did... who would believe them? To them, he was a blood-traitor, the last of a pureblood
line gone to shit. Sirius was of the opinion that his family had gone to shit long before he
was ever born.
For the last few years, Sirius wished for his family—his real family; the family he
had chosen for himself.