By the time the door to his empty cell locks behind him, Sirius Black is no longer laughing. He’s been stripped of everything - wand, of course, but also his clothes, all of his possessions, his entire fucking dignity. All he has is what he was born with.
It isn’t fun.
The days are endless. He’s more Padfoot than man, which isn’t all that unusual as of late – all soldiers should become Animagi for the sole purpose of an excellent, internal form of escapism, Sirius has said it many times – and honestly, if he could get it down by the time he was sixteen, how hard can it really be? – but the frequency of not staying as himself is wearing down the usefulness of it.
Still, Padfoot doesn’t have thoughts.
When he isn’t Padfoot, he’s angry, and anger needs an outlet. For years after Regulus had been sorted into Slytherin and started acting like an arsehole, before he’d… before, Sirius used to think about sending him letters. An entire unwritten epistolary of anger and regret, ending as abruptly as
Anyway. It doesn’t take Sirius much to get back to the habit.
Lupin, the moon’s almost full again. Where the fuck are you? What the fuck is taking you so long? Have you left me here to rot on purpose? I know I screwed up ok, I know I should have believed
The thought of James cripples him every time, reduces him to a pit of darkness that summons every available Dementor on the block, so he learns to not think about him. About them. It isn’t as much Occlumency as it is an instinct of self-preservation, carefully inbred in the Most Ancient and Noble House of Coldblooded Exclusionists.
Look, Remus, I know you’re mad at me, and I get it, but sort your fucking priorities. Come get me already so I can be the one to
It’s hard, matching all the pictures of Peter Pettigrew in his head. The mousy 11-year-old with eyes full of more starlight than the Black family tapestry. The anxious boy who thought he’d fail the exams every year, who did fail his transfiguration OWL on the first try, mostly due to nerves. The young man who found his courage after graduation and took a job at the Ministry to spy on known Death Eaters. Who never failed to show at the pub night. Who Sirius trusted – against his better upbringing – so entirely that he
It’s much easier to think of Remus. It’s a more straight-forward, uncomplicated kind of anger.
Are you punishing me for thinking that you were the spy, for not trusting you? Aren’t you supposed to be the reasonable one? You’re a miserable prick, is what you are.
At some point, a dribble of Death Eaters begins in the halls of Azkaban. Then, a flood.
So you believe them, is that it? Is that why you haven’t come to even see me?
I swear I could hear howling in the halls all last night. I hoped it was you. I hoped they took you to Azkaban for the full because the Ministry cells were too nice. I hope they do that every month from now on until you get me out of here. I fucking hope
Are you even alive, you coldhearted shit? You can’t honestly think I did it, can you? That I would ever do something like that, betray a friend like
Turns out there are things in his relationship to Remus, too, that the Dementors are fond of. But the thing about imaginary letters - Sirius doesn’t have to think about how he comes across. Doesn’t have to worry that Remus will think he’s lost it.
That he’ll see into the parts of Sirius only his brother ever could.
The rat needs to die.
Death will be too nice for him, too, I fucking pray that the hell Mary believes in is real, I will fucking figure out how, just so that Peter
And when it spins, it spirals.
The rat needs to die a horrible fucking death and I need to be the one to do it. I bet he shits his pants, too, I bet it smells fucking nasty, and I hope
I want to see the light go out of his eyes. I want to see his face turn purple. I want to see him choke on his own tongue, and I want to feel it in my own fists when he finally goes limp. I need to know what it’s like to look at him when life escapes his sorry fucking
So, yeah. Padfoot doesn’t have thoughts.