Silent Brooding

Silent Brooding

How could something like this happen? That was the one question Sirius Black had been asking himself repeatedly for the past ten years while he as stuck in a cramped, six by six Azkaban prison cell. Unlike those around him, he could change into a loveable black dog to keep from losing all will to live, but that wasn't enough. Why was he still alive? Hate? Wrath? Revenge? Something had to be driving him as he was confined to that dingy little hellhole.

The dementors were nothing like the stories told. When he was a lad he and James, God rest his soul, would joke about the dementors, always talking of who would be the first to find out what they looked like under that black raggedly cloak. Sirius, though having been in Azkaban for ten years had yet to be unfortunate enough to get a kiss from the dementors, which few knew was the only way to see what was under that cloak. But wouldn't death, or rather losing all will to live, be better than living out his life in that dank pin while Peter Pettigrew was allowed to run free, even as a rat. It just wasn't fair. But life wasn't fair, was it? If life was fair than his loved godson would still have his parents, and he would know that his best friends were still alive, and not killed by some little rat.

Sirius sat up from his dead like position and situated himself in the corner of two walls, a small, one by one foot bared window was on one wall where he was looking. Even the weather outside of Azkaban was horrible, always. He pulled one knee, the one nearest the wall, up and wrapped his arms around it, sighing slightly as he thought. Most of his time consisted of thinking, brooding, planning, and morphing to save all of the energy he possibly could. His clothing was dirty, torn, and ragged, consisting of white and gray stripes with his prisoner number on the front on his chest. The black, leather shoes he had worn when he entered the prison were thin from wear. The naughty hair that had given Sirius his mysterious brooding look was oily now and jagged; in an attempt to groom himself he had rubbed two stones against the brittle strands, giving his hair an uneven, less-than-gorgeous appearance. His deep, mystifying black eyes were resting in hollowed eye sockets, he was gaunt from lack of nutrition, but there was nothing he could do about that just yet.

One day he'd get his chance, that was already planned, but he had nowhere to go, so leaving right then just wasn't an option. He would have to get some form of a sign, something to tell him where to go to find what he longed for - Peter's body, dead or alive.

The bell sounded and the iron-bared door to his sell was clattered on. A scaly, decomposing large hand slid into his cell, leaving two slices of stale bread, pea soup, and water for his consumption. Even in his dog form he had not found a way to consume such slop. "Thanks," he hoarsely mumbled. During these times, he tried to force a word or two out, so make sure that he still could, and sometimes he couldn't even produce the simplest one syllable word. There was never anyone to talk to, as many lost their souls and wills to live in a matter of days when they entered. Sometimes he'd be lucky enough to get a live one in the cell next to him, one that had just came in from the outside, but that was rare and far between.

Slowly, he made his way, crawling, to the slop they had left on the stone floor in his confinements. To try and give everything a bit of flavor, he chose a slice of bread and dipped it into his pea soup. Much to his distaste, the 'morsel' was still disgusting, nothing could change that, he supposed. No matter, he'd have to eat it all if he wanted to keep his strengths up. He had a good feeling about this, sooner or later he'd get news about Peter and he'd have a reason to escape, he could clear his name and claim his godson and let Harry live with him, and treat him just as well as James would have liked Harry to be treated.

Damned Peter, Sirius cursed, throwing his spoon to the floor with a clatter. Why did he buckle under Voldemort like that? Why? WHY? Sirius cursed inwardly, gulping back his anger and sadness. He should have died, died for his friends. He would have died for the Potter's, but he didn't have that chance, and now he was all alone, forever. That would change; his time for glory would come eventually, before that weasel could ruin anyone else's life as he had done to so many he cared about.

He'd get his revenge if it killed him - but if everything worked there would only be one more death, and it wouldn't be his own. Sirius moved away from the last remaining bit of food, unable to stomach anymore with the thoughts he was thinking. He went back to the corner, looking out at the sky, the freedom he hadn't had in a decade. A slight smile curled his thin, chapped lips as he thought of how sweet revenge would really be.