Golden

The cruelest season is winter, many will argue, and they are not wrong. What they fear, however, are not the hardships of winter, but rather the sentiments the hardships incur. The despair of an endless expanse of white, the hopelessness of the inescapable cold. After all, what can be crueler than that despair? It robs people of all glimmers of happiness, just as the cold mercilessly eliminates all memories of warmth.

And so, it was with grim determination that the prisoner set out for his weekly rounds in the courtyard beside the main establishment of captivity.

There were other prisoners, too, but they were all too self-absorbed to pay much attention to him. The cheerless situation affected them far worse than it did him, he who was still a newcomer. Many of his fellow wrongdoers were muttering to themselves, some pleading innocence and some reliving aloud their nightmares.

These outings were more punishment than respite, contrary to popular belief. To the ignorant who had never spent a night behind the establishment's bars, an outside excursion was healthy and invigorating. But for the criminals, a glimpse at the grey walls and unyielding surfaces only exacerbated their sorry conditions. In winter, it was even worse. At least in their cells, it was often too dark to notice the many deficiencies.

There were few visitors. The handful who dared venture forth often hurried away soon after arrival, the misery being too overwhelming and contagious.

However, the prison had a visitor that day. A ghost.

That is, a ghost of a memory. What was even more astonishing was that the memory was a happy one.

"How was detention with Provectis?" a brown-haired boy asked an approaching friend, a much younger version of the prisoner.

"Obnoxious," he replied, settling down on the grass.

"You're obnoxious."

He grinned and threw a handful of uprooted grass at his companion. "But I'm much more attractive than that misguided man who thinks he can teach. Well, aren't I?" He stuck his nose haughtily in the air.

"Well, you know, sometimes it's hard to tell..."

"Remus J. Lupin, are you telling me you do not find me attractive?" he asked with a mock frown.

"Not par-" But before Lupin could finish, the other boy had showered him in an explosion of grass.

While they laughed, two others approached. One was tall, messy-haired and very much an athlete, but the other was small and timid-looking.

"Tch. Padfoot, you really shouldn't bully people like that, you know," the athletic one joked as he sat down.

"What? This?" And all of a sudden, there were bits of green sprinkled in the already untidy hair. "Don't look so glum, Prongs. It's Friday!" But Prongs had already tackled Padfoot to the ground, and Remus could only grin knowingly at Peter, the timid one.

"So, what're we going to do this weekend?" Remus asked as way of breaking up the tussle.

"Oh, you know, the usual... Have a go at Snivellus, steal some food from the kitchens..." Prongs replied while punching Padfoot lightly on the shoulder.

"What about your ever more desperate pursuit of the ever so elusive Lily Evans?" Padfoot asked with a smirk.

"That girl's addled, I tell you!" Prongs exclaimed indignantly, immediately warming up to the subject. "I haven't got a clue as to why she won't go out with me! All the other girls would if I asked!"

"Join the club, Prongs. Moony here doesn't think I'm attractive, and if I'm not, then neither are you," Padfoot said.

"Well, I'm really not in a position to judge," Lupin replied with a twitch in the corner of his mouth. "But I'm sure the girls find you two very fanciable."

Peter tittered, and Padfoot turned to him. "Yes, you find this very enjoyable, don't you, Wormtail?" Wormtail flushed deeply and averted everyone's eyes.

"In any case, I just came from McGonagall," Prongs declared and then paused for dramatic effect. "...Just told me that I seem to have the necessary marks to become an Auror. Dunno why I had to make an appointment just to hear that." He had an air of extreme confidence, fully aware that no obstacles existed in his future.

"My isn't 'til next Monday. She'll probably nag about my attitude and then tell me I've got a bright future," Padfoot said while yawning. "When're you two's appointments, anyhow?" He nodded at Peter and Remus.

"It was yesterday," Peter answered.

"Tuesday during our free period. Wonder what she has to say about my future," Remus remarked, though not bitterly.

However, his comment had an immediate effect on the others. Prongs and Padfoot, who had been lounging around with self-complacent smirks on their faces, promptly sobered up, as did Peter who only looked even more like an obedient pet.

"What? Don't look at me like that. I'm not bitter about it or anything," Remus said to no effect.

"Listen, mate, we reckon Dumbledore'll put in a good word for you anywhere."

"At the rate you're going with Defense Against Dark Arts, I'll be surprised Dumbledore doesn't offer you the teaching position when old Provectis resigns..."

"Yeah, well, I'm too young to teach, aren't I?"

"Hey, if you're ever left wandering around Muggle London, I promise you'll have a place at my house, although it's hardly a place any sane person'd want to spend time in," Padfoot offered as he tried to lighten the mood.

"Thanks, guys. I think I'll be fine. Plus, I can always mooch off of the lot of you, can't I? You're my best mates." Lupin blinked, and some color came into his wan cheeks.

"What'd McGonagall say to you, Wormtail?"

Peter laughed nervously and then said, "W-well, she told me if I can keep up with all my classes, I might be a Healer yet."

"Where'll you work? At St. Mungo's?"

"I su- "

"By Merlin! Can't believe you're still talking about this. We've got another full year ahead of us. Stop sounding like you're all going to go out and get your heads lopped off. I, for one, think the future's brilliant and that we really ought to be thinking about when our next escapade to the Shrieking Shack should be. Honestly, how can you three be so serious on a day like this?" Prongs declared. He was bouncing his leg up and down restlessly and evidently very unwilling to have to think about the glum future on such a spectacular Friday afternoon.

The other three fell silent and gazed past each other toward the sun. It was setting now, and its fiery brilliance was waning, slowly but surely. No longer a proud warrior, Helios was weak from holding onto the reins of his horses all day. Nevertheless, the mellow radiance softened everything it touched. The golden peace and warm grass urged everyone into a lethargic half-awakeness. They felt content, hopeful, and, above all, safe. Nothing could touch them. They were like gods, taking in the ambrosial qualities of the afternoon.

It would have made a nice painting, too - the image of four innocent boys, not yet men, sprawled by a dazzling lake as the blood-red sun promised them the best of the best.

That was the past Sirius Black fervently wished he could lose himself in.

But, of course, the memory had to come to an end. A dementor had drifted near him, sensing the sweet nectar the memory promised, and Sirius Black could feel the glow of that Friday afternoon slowly drain out of him. He watched as the dementor motioned with its decaying hands, as if coaxing the happiness out of his mind.

Now that the warmth was gone, he could feel the chill settling back into his bones. It was a familiar ache that had woken him many times during the night. During his stay, he had become somehow more vulnerable. Sometimes he wondered if the prison caused men to age ten times faster than normal, which in turn made him think of Moony. Remus Lupin was probably prematurely grey-haired now. Sirius was about to lapse into another bout of reminiscence, but the dementor seemed to have leeched him of mental strength as well as happiness, and instead of a memory, his mind drew a blank.

For a moment, he could not remember where he was. The walls suddenly became unfamiliar, and he felt that he did not belong. Where are my friends? he asked himself. Who's in charge here? I need to get out.

Then his full mental capabilities returned, and he realized the wall he was staring at was meant to separate him from the rest of civilization. And then he remembered everything else in logical order.

These blanks had been occurring with increasing frequency in the past few weeks, and he wondered if amnesia was a side effect of being too close to dementors, or if he was just one of the more psychologically damaged inmates. Whatever the cause, whenever this happened, he often felt he was going insane and losing grip on reality. He severely doubted he would be the same man at the end of his sentence.

"I didn't...I didn't... No, no, no... I didn't. You're mistaken, sir. You've made a mistake, sir. I'm innocent. I'm innocent!"

A short man who might've been rather portly in a different lifetime had stumbled into Sirius, knocking him down. The inmate's arms were outstretched with hands alternately beseeching and grabbing. His own feet constantly got in the way as he repeatedly tripped and scuffed the toe of his boots against the ground. "Tell them," he gasped when he managed to seize Sirius's hand, "tell them I'm innocent! They've got the wrong man, tell them! No...I didn't... Nononono..." He began to mutter incoherently, though he still held on to Sirius.

"Get away from me, man." Sirius wrenched his hand away and scrambled back up. He felt humiliated and tainted. Tainted - because he felt as if someone cursed had transmitted its potency to him. The large wet spot on the back of his robes, where the snow had made contact, was his physical humiliation. The encounter with the poor fool deeply shook Sirius Black, not because he was afraid of the lunatic but because he was afraid of what he'd seen in the lunatic's eyes. A blankness he was sure that had been reflected in his own eyes only moments before.

The fool's feet had finally managed to trip their owner, and he was now sprawled helplessly facedown in the snow a few yards away. The dementors never gave much indication of their emotions, but the little scuffle seemed to have heightened their agitation, and they drifted closer to the scene.

Sirius took one step and then stopped. He balanced, for a moment, on just one foot while his other foot remained suspended in the air. He knew he looked foolish, but what he spotted on the ground astonished him. In the space his fall had cleared of snow, there was something greenish peeking through the white. He bent down to examine it.

It was a grass. A weed, to be more precise. His weight hadn't quite crushed it, though it was certainly looking discouraged. Sirius cocked his head and stared at the phenomenon.

Aside from the prisoners, there were no living things on the island, and dementors didn't count. Even before the first snowfall, there hadn't been any green as far as he could see. The weed's existence was therefore remarkable.

For just a second, he felt the stirrings of hope inside him again. If pressed hard enough, he might've been able to recall that sunlit Friday afternoon and the feeling of absolute possibility he associated with it. There, so close. Just reach out. His hand hovered hesitantly above the grass.

A bell tolled to signal the end of the exercise period.

Too late. He stood up and with a contemptuous look, muttered, "You don't exist."

Then he crushed it with his foot and followed the others back inside.