Certain Dark Things || Book Three

v. a rising howl

The pressure inside his head abated and, at last, Sirius took in a long, lingering breath, and opened his eyes.

It was time.

In the weeks that had passed since he'd first seen Peter Pettigrew's photograph, hunger had come to have a whole new definition for Sirius. Every day, three times a day, the guard would levitate a tray of food through a slot in the bars, and every day Sirius would wait for the guard to move on, then take the tray, close his eyes, and dump the food in the Vanishing chamber pot. The sustenance in Azkaban could hardly be called as such—but, Merlin! The first days bit the hardest, like a thousand furious bugs in his belly gnawing and pinching and crawling about, driving him mad despite his best efforts to ignore it. He sipped water and tried to savor every drop, concentrating on his plan.

Every day, Sirius stared at the bars of his cell and thought about all the feasts he'd attended in the past. He missed pumpkin juice the most, surprisingly; he missed the spice of it, the sudden, unexpected sweetness, the depth of flavor. Remus—oh God, Remus—had never been much of a fan, preferring a good cuppa, but James—James, I'll kill him for what he's done to you and—had loved it. All the best meals of his life were taken in the Great Hall, sitting among his friends—his brothers, his—.

The Dementors preyed on the memories, of course. Sometimes Sirius wondered if he'd only imagined the taste of pumpkin juice, if it had always tasted like ashes on his tongue, if anything would taste right ever again. Food had a joy all its own. The guards could probably serve beef wellington and chardonnay and it'd all taste like shite.

He felt the Dementors drift off, their effects lessening, and knew it was time to go.

Every month or so, the guards of Azkaban had to be refreshed with a new unit from the mainland. The Ministry kept the whole bloody rock locked down—no Apparition, no Floo, all Charms in brooms set to fail, physical approaches by sea blocked unless scheduled by specific owls. The DMLE provided the Aurors and guards who lived in the fortress on the far levels where the Dementors didn't patrol. Sirius knew so much about their rotations because James—I'm so sorry, James—had done a one-month stint during his trainee days at the Aurory and had come home to Lily—Lily, please—gray as a ghost. He'd told Sirius all about it. The guards tip-toed about the edges in the prison, skirting the Dark creatures, but they still suffered the effects.

Sirius started to laugh at the irony and swallowed the noise, shaking his head. Not now, idiot.

Changing the guards meant a shift in the wards. It meant a very small, very slight window of opportunity existed and he was not about to let that chance go. Sirius kept quiet, listening to every lingering drip of water, every tired, shifting body and Bellatrix's caterwauling, eating part of his last meal for the energy. Merlin forbid he pass out halfway through his own escape attempt. He shoved gritty porridge into his mouth and swallowed without thought, a nervous, anxious energy souring his gut and quickening his pulse. The evening cast deeper shadows than usual upon the stone and, when he breathed, Sirius could taste the static hum of a summer storm in the air.

His hands shook as he removed the Prophet from the inside of his scraggly robes one last time. He looked at the moving photo a final time, lip curling, his resolve solidifying until it rested like a magnet inside his sternum, tugging him inexorably onward. Sirius folded the paper again and tucked it away. I'm coming for you, Peter.

The rush of his body morphing overcame him, and Sirius took a moment to let the sensation settle, enjoying how the heightened canine instinct dulled the drag of human sorrow and grief. He padded over to the bars and nosed about, sniffing, then put one leg through the slim opening. Whatever wizard had formed the bars hadn't done so flippantly; the allotted space proved nearly too small for an emaciated dog to pass through. Sirius grunted and wriggled, finally jumping over the bottom strut to put himself through the middle of the gate, letting gravity drag his front half down, twisting his hips and legs to yank them out after. A final, fur-ripping wrench dropped him to the floor with a dry thud.