The Willingness to Rot
WHAT?
Proud of him? When had they ever been proud of him? It was a frosty day in hell indeed. Certainly, because the cold look in his mothers eyes, the look that always froze the blood in Sirius’ veins, had risen a few degrees. The look had almost, almost, softened. An infinitesimal amount, but noticeable to be sure. His mother looked him up and down, not out of the ordinary, but this time, it wasn’t cruel and calculating, it was simply curious. She took in the ash coating his hair, the wrinkled nature of the clothes he had been in for almost 3 days, the smeared eyeliner, the dried tear tracks. The new things too, things she certainly wouldn’t have permitted had he lived under her roof still. The barbell through one eyebrow, the slit in the other, 4 piercings in each ear, industrial, 3 lobe, and one forward helix. The ornaments in them. In his left, silver bar (industrial), one connecting chain(lobe), moon(forward helix), and the sword with a matching ruby hilt(3rd lobe). In his right, a copper bar (industrial) two silver hoops (lobe), star (forward helix) and the one magical one, a link with four animal prints that shuffled up and down the chain, almost as if walking. Stag, wolf, dog, rat. Her eyes further lingered on his face, absorbing the black lipstick, and braid Moony had placed in his hair on Halloween. Then her gaze traveled down his chest and arms, widening slightly at the sight of the numerous tattoos that lived there. After a longer silence than Sirius felt comfortable with, she met his eyes. The one part of him that hadn’t changed. She had spent minutes looking over his body, criticizing silently. But it had taken her time to meet his eyes. She had made them, they hadn’t been inked, or pierced, or altered in any way. And she struggled to find them. Find him. His father, however, stood a little farther back from the bars, behind his wife. He looked stoically impassive, as if seeing his son for the first time in years was just another Wednesday. It probably was. It hadn’t been lost of Sirius the depths of his fathers love for him. About as shallow as a muddy puddle. His mother, at least, attempted to keep up a ruse, whereas Orion had labored under no delusions that Sirius was anything other than a pawn, a bargaining chip, something to use, abuse, and throw away at the earliest convenience. Sirius, for his part, din’t quite know how to feel. He was filled with questions, and had bore nothing less than strong resentment and residual fear for the people who created him. Raised would be giving the Black Matron and Patron too much credit. That award went to the Potters. Something to adorn their graves, really, because Sirius had never thanked them properly. He likely would have resorted to living on the streets if he didn’t have James’ family. But he did, and they were the sole reason he stood here, today, staring down his parents and feeling overwhelming grief to people he could never have dreamed of repaying.
“Sirius, son. We never expected this for you. We had hoped-” Walburga glancing back at her husband, almost excitedly, mostly sickly sweet(his father still betrayed no emotions)
“That with time you would realize your alliance to this family. Despite your-rebellious behavior, that one day you could return to your seat, at the Magnificent, Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Toujours Pur.”
“Toujours Pur.” His father finally spoke, but only to mundanely repeat the family motto. The one that decorated the wall behind his fathers desk in the study, behind the oaken desk, splattered with blood, (scourgified). In the room with the curtains that dripped with screams, the carpet that oozed terror, floorboards filled with children's terror. The motto that was branded to the backs of Sirius’ eyelids, the one he saw when he fell asleep.
Toujours Pur.
But Sirius was only becoming more confused. Nothing had changed. He had renounced his family and their bullshit motto long ago. His loyalty had never wavered from his found family. His real one. What was his mother talking about? Why were they here? He had known that his father possessed a seat within the Wizagamot, a fact that terrified him, but was sure that he wouldn’t be presiding due to the fact that it was about Sirius. The court surely knew that his parents would want to enact the harshest punishment possible on their son. Surely they would remove the bias. So why were they here? And what had his mother said? That they were surprised by his actions, and proud? That this (whatever this was, would return him to his place as heir? Surely not. Sirius realized that he was saying “surely” to himself quite a bit, so might as well make it a sure thing.
“Why are you here.”
It was a question, but it came out more as a statement. It didn’t seem like he was able to get his intonation above a distinct monotone. His mother looked surprised, a little miffed, but then her face broke into a smile. One that had actual pleasure behind it. It was unnerving.
“Why Sirius, to congratulate you, of course, and to say goodbye.” Her smile didn’t waver. Sirius began to feel nauseous.
“C-congratulate me? Goodbye?”
“We wished you had come to us, told us of what you had been doing. Of course we knew the dark lord wouldn’t share his aims with us, to be expected, there is secrecy even among the higher ranks, only He Who Must Not Be Named knows all. But had you volunteered the information willingly, we would have been overjoyed.”
None of this was making any sense. He looked at his mother blankly. If she wanted to dither on, he would let her do the work, though he hoped she would make her point soon enough. Perhaps his parents were going senile in their old age-coupled with incest, likely.
“You followed through, son. Finally, all of our dreams for you were realized. We only wished we got to spend more time with you as you are now. It might have been a worthwhile relationship. But alas, I'm sure your work was dangerous, and you kept up the guise for as long as you could.”
The guise? What the bloody hell was the bat on about? He was about to interrupt, but then, she finally said it.
“Murder, my darling? How very Slytherin of you.”
His mouth dropped open. His parents were proud. Of him. Because they thought he killed his best friend. On purpose.
His mother clocked that his mouth dropped.
“You thought we wouldn’t find out? It wasn’t just picking off some insignificant muggle, pet. You disposed of a high profile, Sacred 28 heir. Much like yourself. Then proceeded to do in yet another Sacred 28 child, albeit the second born who was practically a squib, but-small victories. Both known blood traitors, or supporters of the behavior, at least. But the coating on the chocolate frog, my dear, is when you showed your true colors. 11 muggles? Even your father and I were impressed. Makes it worth it, I'm sure. Even though your service to the Dark Lord might be put on hold, you loyalty won’t be, and with Bella and yourself, I'm sure you can make it out somehow. The two of you? It’ll be a cinch.”
Merlin.
Fuck.
Goddammit.
His mother hadn’t spoken to him in years. The reason to change? Murder. What she believed to be cold-blooded murder on the part of her son, whom she assumed a Death Eater. What a kick in the mouth. Wait- Bella? He hadn’t seen his cousin in years, was glad to be shot of her. He likely would never see her again, she was locked away, so why was his mother so sure they would be in cahoots?
“Make it out?”
His mother looked confused, and then the tiniest bit remorseful.
“Of prison, dear. Azkaban.”
Azkaban.
A
Z
K
A
B
A
N.
He immediately began to tremble. His mother had to be wrong. No. He had heard true horror stories about it. A impenetrable fortress. An unidentified location. No escape. None. And guarded by-God. Dementors. Who were said to take every good thing, suck it up like a tornado. Leave you with nothing but the worst. And boy did Sirius have a lot to work with. No. The irony didn’t miss him that he had been saying this a lot as well. No. As if refusing to accept it made it any less true.
“They haven’t told you? Well, you were going to learn at any rate. Goodbye son, we are so proud. A life sentence doesn’t always mean for life, you know. People haven’t really escaped before, but perhaps you’ll be the first.”
As his mother turned on her heel, with not so much as a backward glance, striding away with his father following in her wake, a single tear slid down his cheek.
…
“Mr. Black, they were meant to be escorted from the Ministry proceeded with the other members after the trial. I am sorry the news wasn’t delivered by a justice-keeper. We had the intention of letting you know the results of the trial in a professional manor.”
Sirius could barely force his head to bob up and down.
“As it stands, they are correct. Let it be known to any and all future pensieve viewers that the defendant is receiving the results of his absentee trial.”
The man, who had deep burgundy robes with the ministry logo on the right breast pocket, and long blond locks tied in a knot at the back of his head, unfurled a official piece of parchment. Not looking Sirius in the eyes, he began to read.
“Sirius Orion Black, born to Walburga and Orion Black, on the third of November, 1959, was called into the Ministry for questioning and subsequent trial on October 31st, 1981, concerning the deaths of the wizards James Potter, Peter Pettigrew, Witch Lily Evans-Potter, and 11 Muggle bystanders. Mr. Black was informed of the court proceedings, but refused to submit himself to truth verification in the forms of Veritaserum, Legilimency, and Memory withdrawal via pensieve, as is his right under decree 593, established by Derek Carew. This gave the court very little information to go on, and ultimately decided upon his guilt in previously mentioned crimes. The presiding Judge ruled a life sentence in Azkaban, effective immediately. That is all. Let the court be aware that Sirius Orion Black has received his sentencing, and will be transported to Azkaban prison at the centers earliest convenience.”
The man turned and left with no further comment.
…
He tried. He tried to think, tried to breathe, to force his lungs to expand and contract. The things that humans do intrinsically, without thinking. Suddenly he was aware of them. Because there was a hippogriff sitting on his chest, and his eyes wouldn’t blink unless he told them too. Because he couldn’t think about anything else. Nothing worked. It was as if the world was moving in slow motion. There was ringing in his ears. The lights flickered slowly, the dust motes that were floating through the air seemed frozen in place. He felt stagnant. Trapped. Like a fly in amber. He tried. Tried to get his mind to move, do anything other than stop totally. Nothing made sense. Where was he? Why did he feel so panicked? Why was his face wet? He reached up to touch it, confused. Why?
Before he realized what he was doing, he was on his feet. Fingering the zipper pull on his leather jacket. The jacket James had bought for him. Maybe James would know what was going on. Maybe he’d had too much firewhisky at the party last night. They’d had a party, he thought, but what were they celebrating? It was too early for the quidditch cup, though perhaps not to start practicing. Sirius felt strangely lethargic and like he needed to stretch out his limbs. James would kill him. He was probably late for the run he had promised his best friend. Prongs was probably in the great hall already, waiting for him. Bollocks. And he was still wearing his leather jacket! He needed to change. Put on some trainers, and brush his teeth. Ergh, they felt so gross! Had he really had that much to drink? This run was going to suck bollocks. He began to shrug out of his jacket, tying his hair in a knot atop his head. Once his hands were free, he used them to get his jacket fully off. Need to change, need to change…
“Need to change.”
He said out loud, muttering under his breath. He was about to look for clothes when his fingers skimmed a small piece of metal stuck to his jacket.
When did that get there?
He never would have put a pin on James’ jacket. Turning it over, still muttering under his breath a bit-
“Hurry up Padfoot, Prongs is going to be so mad right now”
“Need to change”
Flipping the jacket completely over. He saw it. A silver circle, a badge really. With black font lettered on it. It read:
SIRIUS ORION BLACK
MURDERER
Property of Azkaban Prison, North Sea.
Oh.
Everything stopped again.
Oh.
He didn’t hear them come in.
Didn’t hear the boots, or the voices.
He didn’t see them walk up to the bars of the holding cell.
Didn’t see them point the wand.
“Stupefy.”
…
Sirius awakens with arms wrapped around his, again. Coiled with the strength of a cobra. His arms are linked behind his back, magic humming against his skin. He hears, rather than sees, a moving vehicle that he is in. The rumble of the engine, the bounce and jumble of it rolling over rocky terrain. Upon opening his eyes, he sees he is in some kind of armored vehicle. Him and the two aurrors that hold him are seated in a metal compartment, on a metal bench. The men sitting next to him have hoods drawn, he can’t see their faces. When they realize he is awake, they (impossibly) tighten their grip on his arms.
“I dunno where you think I’m going, boys.” He drawls.
They don’t respond.
“Mummmm, are we there yet? I have to take a piss.”
Still no response.
“So, arts and crafts time? Can I learn how to fold an origami phoenix? Or is there dance time? Water polo? Recreational footie?” One of the aurrors turned to him and pointed their wand at him.
“Woah, no need for theatrics, there-”
“Silencio.”
Damnit.
The feeling of his voice being cut off feels suffocating, just like it did growing up. When Walburga or Orion(this was his fathers specialty, really) wanted to really punish him, they would silence him with the spell. Being silenced felt like something wrapping around your vocal cords squeezing them into submission. If you tried to speak, you would not be able to breathe at the same time, as to remind you that there was no escape from the consequences of defiance.
It not only felt physically violating, but mentally as well. Leaving Sirius silently sobbing at the anger that bubbled up his throat, cut off from everyone. Completely isolated. They would leave him for days like this, making comments such as, “Sirius has been rather well behaved, don’t you think Orion?” and “Perhaps he will be a fit seat for the House after all.” The worst was when they would loop Reggie in on it. “Regulus, darling, would you ask your brother why such a sudden change in attitude?” and they expected him to, as well. Expected his baby brother, who was fully aware Sirius couldn’t talk, to ask him the question. The question which, if he had all of his faculties, he would answer, but not quite the way their parents wanted. Generally, Regulus would stutter out the question, and Sirius would glare at the table stonily.
Back in the early days, Regulus and Sirius learned bits of sign language so that they could talk to each other without getting in trouble, because the icing on the cake was that Mother vanished all the normal quills in the house, and Sirius’. All that remained during Sirius’ silent spells were personal quills (which only worked when in the hand of the owner) and her ever famous and treasured blood quills. Which ensured that if he tried to even use parchment and those cursed quills to talk to Reggie, find some kind of solace in his pain, any comfort, their Mother would know.
Additionally, and even when he was allowed speech, Mother and father had long since stopped allowing him to send letters to Remus, James, and Peter, and were checking the mail for return correspondence to boot. If any of the 3 sent a letter, and its contents weren’t up to scratch (they never were) Sirius would suffer for it. So, by second summer, Sirius had told them to stop, and he would see them in September. This left James outraged, and he had tried multiple different tactics to keep up checking in with his best friend. That all came to a stop, when summer after third year, James saw the results he was reaping.
Sirius stepped onto the Hogwarts Express, after bidding Mother and Father a silent goodbye. Regulus had tried to take his bags for him, along with his own, but Mother had looked at her youngest with an expression so severe, she hadn’t needed words. So Sirius, who was trying desperately not to invoke the breathlessness caused by the curse, grit his teeth and picked up his bags. He had been already having trouble staying on his feet. He was swaying slightly, and everything looked a bit fuzzy. His belt was cutting into the skin on his back, and it shot flashes of pain up him every time he shifted oh so slightly. He strode as quickly as he could toward the train, without looking back, and as soon as he got to the steps, Regulus was there. He levitated both sets of luggage without a second glance at his brother, and they boarded the train.
Once in the train corridor, Sirius slumped against the wall. Thankfully, the Blacks were so early to drop off there were few other kids there at all, and none remained in the corridor. Sending the luggage down the hall to be stowed by the house elves on board, Regulus stopped and turned towards his brother with a worried look on his face. He swept his left hand flat down his chest, twisting outwards at the bottom. ‘Need’. Then he positioned his hands so that one closed hand with a thumb up rested on the palm of his other flat upturned hand. ‘Help’. Nodding his head yes, and ignoring the pain that pinched in his neck, and the blur that was beginning to obscure his vision, he signed. Hands pressed together against his body with palms down one on top of the other, he pushed down. ‘Sit’. Regulus nodded in response, and flipped both hands up so that his palms were facing the ceiling, and moved them in a circular motion. ‘Where’. Sirius maneuvered his fingers so that his pinkie, middle and ring finger were tucked, and index and thumb were extended, held horizontal to his chest. He made the motion and repeated it 3 times.
“777?” Regulus asked in clarification. Sirius nodded. Regulus looped his arm around Sirius, trying to take most of the weight, and they began walking towards his compartment. Upon reaching the labeled door, Reggie deposited Sirius on the seat. At this point, Sirius was tearing up from the pain, and trying desperately not to make a sound. To whimper even would be such a release, but alas… Once the door was firmly shut behind them, Reggie quickly sat himself opposite his brother. Feeling comfortable with their privacy, he whispered,
“Is there anything I can do?”
Sirius swept his right hand in front of him at belly bottom level, palm faced down. ‘No’.
“Want me to at least take your button up off?” Sirius looked up at him, frantically shaking his head.
“Okay, okay, I won’t.” His brother looked defeated; He put his head in his hands. All Sirius was able was to sit against the seat and take tiny, measured breaths. A flicker of something flashed across Reggie's face.
“Are you gonna tell McGonagall?”
Same motion as before. ‘No’.
“You can’t be mute the whole year, Sirius, you know that. People are gonna ask. Your friends will ask.”
Anger coursed through his blood, heating him up from the inside out. He knew he would have to deal with this, at some point. He knew. He knew James would ask, Remus would ask, even wimpy, whiny little Peter would ask. But he didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want them to know.
He felt a wave of embarrassment, shame, frustration, helplessness, and fear, like a tidal wave come to wash him out to sea. And the helplessness was the worst of it all. That he couldn’t even fucking speak was the straw that broke the camels back. It wasn’t Regulus’ fault, none of it was. Their parents were the only ones to blame, and it had even taken Sirius meeting James to realize that no loving guardian should emotionally, physically, and psychologically torture their children in order to force a certain kind of behavior or reaction. But it wasn’t Reggie at the end of the wand. It was Sirius. Sirius who took the hexes, and the curses, the lashings, and the other, more creative punishments. Sirius, always Sirius.
So, with anger and pain rushing through him in equal measure, he signed; index finger pointing and pushing out in the direction of the door. ‘Get out’. Regulus looked pained, more pitying than hurt.
And that’s what did it.
He felt his airways constrict as he tried to force out real words, because motioning with his fingers didn’t seem to match the fury his heart held. But of course, this only resulted in his gasping for air that wouldn’t come, not until he stopped trying and then some time after that. Regulus came to his side, holding him up as Sirius choked and spluttered in an attempt to curse at him. Sirius shoved him to the floor of the train compartment, desperate to be alone. He threw up two fingers, his index and pointer, pads of fingers facing himself, the traditional sign language for ‘fuck off’. Then he dropped one, fully flipping him off for good measure. Regulus got to his feet, dusted himself off, and turned to sniff at Sirius disdainfully before calling back over his shoulder, “that’s just plain pathetic. Speak up, big brother. Oops? Cat got your tongue? Have fun with your locked lips, lion.”
He let the compartment door slide shut behind him. Sirius, with no more energy to do much else, flopped onto the bench, taking up an entire side. And allowed the tears to fall.
…
“Budge up Black. I know your family gets here early, but that's no reason to not be waiting for us in anticipation.”
James joked joyfully; he kicked Sirius’ foot that was sticking out over the bench. He got no response. Sirius was just trying to continue breathing, although it hitched at the agony that reverberated through his battered body.
“Oh bless him, he’s totally conked out, the bugger.” said Peter as he stepped through the door, tossing his book bag up onto the rack hung over the window.
Peter sat down on the seat across from Sirius, closest to the window, and James followed suit. Sirius had his head turned away from them, so they couldn’t see his face screwed up in an attempt to not elicit noise.
“I can’t believe he’s asleep, it’s the middle of the bloody day! I’m gonna wake him up.”
“No, let him sleep.”
Oh bless. Remus’ voice floated over his head, ping-ponging in between his ears.
“But Moony, we haven’t seen him all summer.” James whined, a little too petulantly for an almost 13-year old.
“I don’t know about you fellas, but I don’t particularly want to sit squashed against you two tossers for 8 hours.” Peter.
“He won’t be asleep that long, just wait.” Remus.
“But I want to hear about his summer!” James.
But James wouldn't hear about Sirius’ summer. No one would.
“I’m gonna wake him up.” James had begun to move across the compartment, and poked Sirius sharply in the back. In one of the gashes. Sirius flinched so sharply, and gasped out in pain. It wasn’t noise, per se, just breath, so the curse allowed it. But James froze. And the other Marauders fell completely silent, from where Peter was grumbling and Remus had been trying to dissuade James from bothering Sirius.
“Padfoot?” James ventured tentatively. Moony had gotten up as well, kneeling by Sirius’ side. He placed a hand on Sirius’ back again, and Sirius tried desperately not to move as 2 tears rolled down his nose, still turned away from his friends. James must have felt the infinitesimal amount of movement, because he turned to look at Lupin, worry in his voice.
“Is he okay? Sirius, are you okay?”
But of course he couldn’t say, couldn’t lie to James like he wanted. He knew his eyes were red, knew they would betray him. Until James tried to flip him over. James hand was grasped around his shoulder, the one that had been dislocated and only just popped back into place. His parents had left him with it out for two days. Two fucking days he had shuffled around like a broken ragdoll, in enough pain to pass out, and had done so three times, til Regulus had took pity on him and popped it back into place. Then their parents had punished both of them. While Regulus had to sit writing “Blacks do not disrespect their parents” with their mothers favorite quill over and over until the blood spilled over his knuckles and coated the paper. Until you couldn’t read what he had written. Until his hand was a mess, and silent tears mixed with the “ink”. But Reggie had got off light. On the other hand, Sirius’ back was turned into a cutting board. He had screamed, he had cried, he had fallen to the floor in agony. But Orion hadn’t stopped, until the world fell into blackness. Until he woke up in his bed. With Reggie beside him, covering both of their wounds with cloth soaked in murtlap essence. The tear tracks glistened in the light of the moon shining through the window. Regulus had wrapped the backs of his legs, and practically covered the entirety of his back in the bandages.
“And you say Kreacher is good for nothing.”
Sirius hated the little toerag. He worshiped their mother like she was a saint. Not the demon she truly embodied. The house elf didn’t stop their parents once, and would accept no criticism of them either. So Sirius hated him.
“I had to drag you. From the drawing room.” Regulus had spoken again, softly.
“They had left awhile ago, but you hadn’t woken up. So I mopped up the blood best I could, and-”
“Drug me up two flights of stairs?”
“Yeah.”
“Fucking hell, Reg.”
They slept side by side that night.
But his shoulder, although back in place, still hurt like a bitch. So when James grabbed it, he tried to scream. But all that happened was near suffocation. Ignoring the agony lancing through his body, Sirius jerked away, and his hands flew to his throat, which felt as if it was closing. Tears streamed down his face, past his puffy black eye. The wound James could see. He could see it. Apparently his mothers glamour had worn off, if not her curse. Shit.
Because James had gasped, eyes locking onto Sirius’ own.
“Merlin's beard, Padfoot, what did they do to you?!” Sirius still couldn’t breathe, and his fingers were starting to tingle. His mouth opened and shut, like a fish out of water. He could feel, rather than see, his lips turning blue. Everything was spinning, black dots expanding to fill his vision. He writhed on the floor, for he had fallen after James had touched him.
“He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe! Someone help him! Oh my god, Merlin, Jesus Christ!” James was seeming to run out of holy beings to curse. Just when he thought he was about to lose consciousness, be it from the pain of his injuries or the lack of oxygen going to his brain, he heard Moony’s voice again, loud and clear, even if a bit shaky.
“Anapneo.”
Blessedly, oxygen flowed into Sirius’ lungs. Careful not to do more than sigh in relief, he slumped fully onto the floor.
“Padfoot, are you okay? What the bloody fuck was that all about? Did you get something caught in your throat?” Peter questioned.
Sirius wanted more than anything in this moment, to be able to speak.
“Pads, what happened to your eye?” James again.
“Sirius. What’s wrong.” Lupin, again.
More tears.
Oh for fucks sake.
It hurt. It all hurt so bad. He just wanted it gone. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t even turn himself over. He simply gestured with his uninjured arm to point at his back.
“Your back?” Lupin.
He just nodded.
“Can you speak?”
A shake of the head, and Remus knelt down by his friend's side. He peeled off Sirius’ suit jacket, the hideous one his mother made him shrug over his torn back. Gasps filled the room. Shit. He must have bled through his button up. Remus peeled this off too, as delicately as before. The stench of iron and open skin filled the compartment.
“Oh my god. I’m going to be sick.” Peter almost whimpered, tearful.
Sirius seconded that motion.
“We’ve gotta get you out of there. Those people aren’t fit to raise dogs.” James growled fittingly.
Sirius hated every moment of this. He hated they were seeing him like this, broken and bloody and helpless. He hated that he hadn’t been able to talk to them for months. He hated that Reg was suffering too, and nobody could really save them. He hated that he resented his brother a bit, even though he would never tell him because it wasn’t fair that he resented him at all. Because Sirius never wished that he could trade places with Reggie, have him take it all instead. He would make the same choices over and over, take it all, so that his little brother would never have to. He hated that James was going to feel guilty that it was his wonky talking patronus that made all of it happen in the first place. But most of all, he hated that he couldn’t talk to them. Tell them anything. That he was trapped in his mind. Merlin he hated that feeling.
…
Sirius had gotten so lost in thought that he hadn’t realized they had stopped moving. The aurrors tugged him to his feet, and led him out the back of the little armored car they had been riding in.
At first, the light was so bright that he couldn’t see. It took him a few seconds to make anything out at all. But when he did…
Shit.
All around him, as far as the eye could see, was dirt. Cracked, hardening, dirt. No trees. No mountains. Not a single insect. The place seemed to be completely devoid of flora and fauna. It was nothing. Completely barren. Until he turned to his right. It was a cliff. A cliff that overlooked a huge body of water. The sea. The north sea, if Remus was to be believed about the location of Azkaban prison. But Sirius couldn’t see any kind of structure at all. None. So where were they? The aurrors marched him over to the side of the cliff. Sirius panicked a bit. They weren’t going to throw him off, were they? It couldn’t end like that! He dug his heels into the crumbling ground, and the aurrors stopped. Not because of some superhuman strength he possessed, but because they looked a bit- bemused.
“You think you get it that easy, pretty boy? You think after all you’ve done, you just get to die?” A female voice echoed from under the hood on his left.
“Careful, Astrea. He is a killer. No need to provoke psychopaths.” A grumpier voice came from behind the second hood. The same voice spoke again.
“You are being taken to prisoner transport. To fight would be to make my day harder, and you do not want to do that. Resistance is futile and all of that.”
Sirius acquiesced. He didn’t need this to be any more painful that it already would be.
“Good boy.” Said the first.
Only Moony called him that, and only when he was Padfoot, and only in jest. The only thing that kept him from growling was the noose tightening around his vocal cords. He hated her, but he hated himself more. He put himself here. He refused to deliver half of his soul to the dementors in exchange for his freedom. Moony would go free, and he- he would rot. And he would do it again. Every. Single. Time.
But how long would he have to go before hearing Moony call him his good boy again?