A/N- This was originally conceived as a one-shot, but because it ended up being so long, I may end up writing one or two more chapters. This came to me randomly last week, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. For me, this was one of those stories that just “flowed” well. Enjoy, and if you do, tell me about it!

You know I don’t own any of this, because if I did, I wouldn’t be writing a fanfic about it.





Prisoner 21431199






“Prisoner twenty-one, forty-three, eleven ninety-nine.” A solemn-faced ministry official reads off a parchment, nodding to himself. He taps it with his wand, then places it on a stack of paperwork on a messy desk. Picking up the stack, he goes through it once more, ignoring the black-haired man standing bound before him. A junior official waiting at his elbow is handed the stack, and at a signal the prisoner’s guards return, leading him out of the office to finish his journey to Azkaban. People shrink away from them as they pass, but the man attempts to ignore the Dementors leading him. He will, after all, be with them constantly for whatever remains of his life.


He is led down cold stone steps to a tiny port where a boat awaits. He shivers at the cold November of the North Sea, glancing back once more at England before stepping into the boat with his guards. Though it is only the Azkaban Ministry offices, it is his last link with humanity, his last link with the life he had once had before this all happened.


In that life he had been Sirius Black; now he was only prisoner twenty-one, forty-three, eleven, ninety-nine.


He sits on the pallet in his cold cell, watching at the light through his small window turns darker as the sun sets. He remembers that somewhere, far from here and years ago, that same sun had set on him and his friends that last day before James’ marriage. The last day they had still been the Marauders. At least the fortress has been spelled so that it is never too cold—it doesn’t need to be. Sirius shivers as a guard glides down the hallway near his cell. The Dementors keep it far colder that the North Sea ever could, even were it to be completely open to the elements. He draws his thin blankets over his shoulders, trying to remember a time with warmth and happiness. But the memories flee like water in cupped hands. He tries again desperately to remember, something, anything, but the only memories that he can recall are the ones he tries equally desperately to forget.


James, fallen on the ground, eyes that once sparked with mischief now staring glassily at the ceiling. The feeling of being unable to breathe as he realized that his best friend would never be with him again. James’ glasses were lying smashed beside him. He can never remember if he had stepped on them accidentally, or if he had found them that way.


Lily, red hair streaming about her shoulders like a pool of blood, green eyes open with an expression of determination and surprise. Lily, whom James had chased after for so many years, now gone forever in an instant.


Remus, eyes sought out in the crowd surrounding him and Peter, in the hope that he, at least would believe him. That look, of utter disappointment, of sorrow, disbelief, and hatred at what he, Sirius, was supposed to have done.


The feeling of being trapped. Peter blaming him, although he could hardly remember what Pettigrew had even said, so numbed was he by the insanity of it all. Surely it had to be a joke. They were, or had been, the Marauders, friends closer than brothers. Peter couldn’t have done something like that. He was Peter, for heaven’s sake! Loveable, laughable, shy little Peter Pettigrew, the one who always helped carry out pranks because no one would believe that he would have the nerve to do something like that. Peter, who had woken up earlier than the others on the last day of school in order to pelt them with fake snowballs. Had he been plotting treason all along?


Sirius throws his head back and laughs at the sheer insanity of it all, just as he had laughed when they had arrested them. The sound is lost among the ceaseless cries that permeate Azkaban. How could anyone believe that he had killed James? James was his brother, partner-in-crime, the one he was closest to. As close as Remus and Peter had been to him, James had been closer. Even if he were to have considered betraying one of his closest friends, he would have died rather than betray James.


In vain Sirius tries to recall images of happier days. Once in a while he catches one; James’ face when he announced his first date with Lily, baby Harry laughing and cooing at something. But the memories are overshadowed by those he would rather forget.


As time passes, the images are fewer and fewer, as days turn into months and slowly a year passes. He thinks it has been two years now, but he cannot be sure. He stopped counting the days months ago.


One in a while, if he sits just right and conditions are favourable, he can see the moon. He watches as it waxes and wanes, and wishes that he could be with Remus once more when the full moon comes. But Remus didn’t believe him. Sirius pushes the memory to the back of his mind, replacing it with the only thought it seems he is allowed to keep. He is innocent. No matter what he may be now, no matter what may happen, he was innocent.


The memories are fewer and fewer, slowly replacing themselves with a constant barrage of everything he has ever tried to forget. Mostly though, it is the few last memories that haunt him the most. Sirius reminds himself that it was not his fault, that he is innocent.


Sometimes he wonders if he is losing his mind.




2143119921431199214311992143119921431199214311992143119921431199




One day he looks at his reflection in his jug of water. A shadow peers back at him curiously, eyes hollow and haunted, face drawn and unrecognizable. He idly runs a hand through long, dirty hair, recalling dimly that it had once been shorter and glossy. Sirius had been vain about his hair. Snuffles doesn’t care.


He transforms back to his dog shape and curls up on the corner of his bed, like he always does now. It is simpler being a dog. The memories are dimmer, small bits of unhappiness in a mind that worries only about the simple things like food and sleep. The Dementors don’t affect him this way, because he has fewer emotions. He stands up, turning around a few times before curling back up and going to sleep.


With a start, he wakes up, recognizing the sound of a new prisoner being dragged into Azkaban. He changes back into his human form and sits on his bed, watching what little of the passageway can be seen through the slits in the door. He hears the Dementors dragging in a woman who fights the whole way, despite the fact that it makes little difference. The Dementors have dealt with thousands of prisoners before, many of whom have fought and screamed. They don’t care. She will end up in her cell nonetheless.


He watches through the slits as they pass near his door. The woman is beautiful, in a haughty and bedraggled sort of way. Her dress is muddy, and her hair unkempt, but her eyes blaze fury. Somewhere out of a corner of his mind a name emerges. Bellatrix Lestrange, once a Black. She was Sirius’ cousin once. Behind her a man is led calmly, her husband, as he remembers. The pair are evidently greatly disliked from the amount of catcalls and hisses that greet them from the other cells.


After they have passed, Snuffles turns back into his dog form and curls back up on his pallet, his sleep disturbed only by the occasional guard that passes his cell.



2143119921431199214311992143119921431199214311992143119921431199



“I swear it wasn’t me, it was Peter Pettigrew! James and Lily decided to change him to Secret-Keeper at the last moment! I could never have killed James, why don’t you believe me?”


Barty Crouch regarded him coldly for a moment, before replying.


“On the charges of the murder of Peter Pettigrew, being a Death Eater in the service of You-Know-Who, and of suppling information to You-Know-Who that led to the murder of James and Lily Potter, I sentence you to life in Azkaban. You will have ample time to learn from your mistakes there.”


The guards had to drag Sirius away, insisting upon his innocence.


Snuffles wakes with a start, registering that he has been given his food. Changing back into his human form, he walks over to the door and picks up the bowl of thin soup and bread and carries it over to his pallet. He eats quickly and hungrily, then walking back over, places them on the floor by small grate his food was passed through. He then picks up his jug of water and drinks almost half of the jug before placing it back on the floor.


From down the hall he hears silence, which he registers as being unusual. Bellatrix has finally stopped screaming, after several weeks, or months, or possibly years. Time isn’t very important anymore, in a place where the only things that matter are eating and sleeping. The Dementors don’t even really bother him anymore, when he is a dog. They used to bother Sirius though.


He sits on the floor near the door, watching the sky outside his window. It is blue, and a bright shaft of sunlight is streaming into his dim cell. On these sorts of days he can remember more easily, and sometimes it almost seems as if he is Sirius again, instead of prisoner twenty-one, forty-three, eleven, ninety-nine. He remembers his dream and wonders why he dreamt it, as he doesn’t dream very often anymore. At the most he dreams a dog-dream occasionally, of smells and things to chew on.


Snuffles curls up in the patch of sun and dreams of chasing rabbits in warm fields, his nose twitching slightly as he sleeps.



2143119921431199214311992143119921431199214311992143119921431199



He hears someone talking in the passageway, rather unusually, and reverts back to human form. Snuffles wonders why someone would be talking, and even laughing, in this place and then remembers that the Minister of Magic comes to inspect the place once every few years. His sits calmly on his bed as the Minister reaches his cell, lime green bowler hat in hand, newspaper under his arm, and a junior official trailing anxiously behind.


“Ahh, Sirius Black! And how are you?” Cornelius Fudge peers through the slits in the door at him.


“Well enough,” Snuffles answers dryly, remembering that he is supposed to be Sirius. “The food leaves something to be desired, but other than that it’s fine, just a bit boring.” His voice is slightly raspy, and it feels odd to be speaking after so long without seeing another human. Sometimes he had wondered if he would even remember how to speak if given the opportunity. It seemed he had.


The Minister seems a bit surprised by this statement. Snuffles realizes that he has probably been greeted by blank stares or screams at every other cell.


“Well, good then.” He turns to go, and Snuffles is struck by a sudden thought.


“Er, Minister, are you done with your paper?” Fudge stops and looks curiously at him. “I miss doing the crossword.” He finishes lamely. The Minister turns and confers with the assistant before speaking to him.


“Yes, you may have it if you like, although I doubt you have anything to work the crossword with.” He passes the paper through a slit to Snuffles, who rises from his bed and walks over to the door to receive it.


“Thank you, Minister.”


“You’re welcome. Have a good day, Black.” Fudge goes on with the other Ministry official.


Snuffles crosses the cell back to his pallet and plops down with a sigh. At least he’d be able to see what was going on at the moment in the Wizarding world, and at the very least he’d be able to see the date. He unfolds the paper, looking first at the date. Goodness, it had been twelve years! It hadn’t seemed that long, although sometimes it had seemed much longer. Across the top of the page is a headline, but he doesn’t even read it as his eye is drawn to the picture below it. Specifically to a certain someone in the picture. The picture is of a large family in Egypt waving merrily, obviously the Weasleys as he recognizes Molly and Arthur who had been friends of Dumbledore. But more importantly, on the shoulder of a tallish boy of around thirteen he sees someone he had never thought to see again.


Peter Pettigrew was alive.


He reads the article, still slightly in shock from the realization, and is even more stunned when he learns that the boy is a friend of Harry Potter and goes to Hogwarts with him. Memories flood his mind, ones he has kept locked in a forgotten corner of his mind. James and Lily dead, baby Harry crying with a cut on his forehead. So Harry is alive and well, and going to Hogwarts. As is Pettigrew.


Something clicks as he puts two and two together, his mind rusty from disuse. Peter was a Death Eater, and is at Hogwarts with Harry. Who knew how long Harry had left before Peter killed him? It certainly wasn’t anything he would feel any qualms about, as he had even betrayed his best friend. And as a rat at Hogwarts, he had limitless opportunities to do him in, and might never be caught.


That night, Snuffles’ dreams were haunted by the images of a traitor and his dead friends.



2143119921431199214311992143119921431199214311992143119921431199



The next day, he begins pacing his cell as he considered the situation. It felt decidedly odd to be doing something like this, for someone who had spent the last ten years in a haze, but it was something that needed to be done. For the first time in twelve years, Sirius felt alive. For the first time, he had a purpose. He knows that he needs to do something, but he isn’t sure what.


He considers all his options, which, not surprisingly, are few. He could attempt to tell someone that Peter was at Hogwarts, but not only would no one believe him, there isn’t anyone he could tell. He discards that option. The only other alternative he can see would be for him to go and protect Harry himself, but that would be preposterous. No one has ever escaped Azkaban. And even if he does, he would have to cross the North Sea.


He surveys the window critically, despite knowing it by heart. No escape there. A tiny window high up in the wall, with thick bars placed close together. He would have to be an insect to escape that way. And then it hits him.


He is an Animagus, and can turn into a dog at will. Perhaps there is a way that a dog could escape that a human couldn’t. He turns around and looks at the door. A thick wooden object, with a few slits at the top so one could see inside or out, and a covered grate at the bottom through which his food was slid. It is solidly locked, and could not be opened by any means that he possessed. Unless…


The grate was opened twice a day, in order for a Dementor to remove his old dishes and give him new food, and occasionally exchange an old blanket for a clean one. Of course escape that way would be unthinkable for most, as few would voluntarily go that near to a Dementor. But in his dog form, that just might be possible. The Dementor wouldn’t be able to sense him as well, because they had difficulty sensing animal emotions, but it might be enough for him to escape.


That night he can barely sleep, tossing and turning as he considers everything that could possibly go wrong.



2143119921431199214311992143119921431199214311992143119921431199



The next day dawns bright and early. Sirius sits up blearily, realizing that he hadn’t slept in his dog form last night. He looks over by his door, realizing that a Dementor has already come by and given him new food. Oh well, it would be best not to escape on an empty stomach.


After he has eaten, Sirius sits on his bed considering how he would go about escaping and wonders what, exactly, would happen to him if he were to be caught. At best, it isn’t a pleasant thought. He would be in his dog form, waiting for the guard to deliver his food. As soon as the Dementor opened the grate, he would sneak through, then down through the fortress to where the boats launched. Unfortunately, that opened up another problem.


After he had gotten out of Azkaban proper, he would still have to cross the North Sea to get back to England. Since he doubted that he would have the strength to apparate from Azkaban, or that indeed he would be able as it was likely that there were Anti-Apparition wards placed all about the fortress, he would either have to take a boat or swim.


He didn’t exactly want to swim but it would be the only way he would be able to get across the sea as he recalled that boats were only kept at the Ministry Offices of Azkaban and never at Azkaban itself.


The only question left, it seems, is when.


Admittedly, as much as he wants to protect Harry, and as much as he owes it to James to ensure that Pettigrew isn’t able to complete what he started, he is afraid. Perhaps it is as a result of living in the same small cell for the past twelve, but he isn’t exactly excited at the prospect of swimming across part of a freezing cold sea. He knows it must be done, but he isn’t sure he wants to exchange a cold, barren cell for a frozen grave.


Perhaps he will think it over for another day or so.



2143119921431199214311992143119921431199214311992143119921431199



He rereads the paper frenetically, searching for some sign of Harry that he might have missed; a picture, a few words, anything. But there is nothing save for the mention in the first article. Finally, as the grate is opened and a decayed hand removes his bowl and slides in a new one along with a piece of bread, he decides that he must do it. He crosses his room and picks up the bowl and bread, eating it while he sits down on his pallet.


It would be best to do it in the early morning, so he could swim in the daylight. He didn’t particularly fancy swimming in the dark, even though he didn’t much fancy swimming at all, but at least he would be able to see his way. He looks at the paper beside him, with Peter looking fat and happy, and decides that he will do it the next morning.


He is innocent, and he will make Peter pay for what he has lived through these past twelve years.


Yawning, he places his bowl back beside the grate, and turning back into Snuffles, he jumps on the bed, turning around a few times before curling up into a warm ball of fur.


His dreams are haunted by green eyes and a stag.



2143119921431199214311992143119921431199214311992143119921431199



The next morning he wakes up early, before his food is delivered. The light slowly turns from darkest grey to a lighter shade, and it looks as though it might rain. He should have expected as much.


He stretches and gets up, jumping lightly off the bed onto the floor, where he sits, waiting, by the door for the grate to open.


There is no time for reconsidering. If he does not do this now, he knows he will never do it.


Agonizing seconds pass before he hears the familiar sound of the grates down the hall being opened. Any moment now.


Slowly, his grate creaks open, and a slimy hand reaches through and takes his bowl. Taking a deep breath, Sirius waits for it to go back through the opening before moving.


Now! His brain screamed at him as he lunges through the opening. Although he was a large dog, he was quite thin from the meager prison food. He darts down the corridor, chancing a glance back at the Dementor behind him. It had closed the grate and moved onto the next cell, evidently not sensing anything out of the ordinary. He would most likely not be missed until the Dementor delivered food in the evening. That gave him plenty of time to escape.


Slowing now, he creeps down the hall, trying to sniff out where the entrance was. He knows that it is farther down as he had been led upstairs when first coming here. Finally reaching a stair, he sneaks down it to the next floor down. There! He had smelled something decidedly sea-ish. He follows the smell across that level, down another stairs, to a large door. Luckily he has not been caught so far, and he will be careful to keep it that way.


Changing quickly back into a human, he opens the door as quietly as possible, slips through, and closes it.


He stands in shock, as his senses are assailed on all sides. He feels so alive. The tang of sea air catches in his lungs, and he breathes in and out deeply a few times, filling his lungs with the gloriously clean air. Even though is a cloudy day, it is brighter than his cell ever was and he blinks a few moments in surprise. The stone feels firm under his feet, but best of all are the sounds. The sea breaking upon the rocks, crashing, hissing; the sound of a few sea birds calling far above him. After twelve years of listening to nothing by the cries and shrieks of the other prisoners, it is heaven.


He slowly collects himself, remembering that he needs to be going if he does not want to be caught. He turns back into his dog shape and trots down the pier to the sea. That direction is home, or what was once home. Gathering his courage, he jumps in the water and begins swimming.


It is cold. The water causes him to shiver and his thick coat threatens to drag him down, but he perseveres and continues. His paws are numb with cold, and his muscles are beginning to seize up, but after an eternity he sees something he thought he would never again see—land. Given new hope, he begins afresh, swimming strongly against the current. As he gets closer to the shore, he can make out a small port, possibly that of Azkaban, to his right, and a small beach to the far left. He swims in that direction.


A long while later, even as he feels that he cannot swim another stroke, his paws feel ground beneath him and he stops swimming and runs through the surf to the shore, freezing in the slight wind. He shakes himself, sneezing at the salt water in his nose, and changing back to his human form, looks back to where Azkaban can be seen as a dot on the horizon.


All at once, memories assail him. Running and pranking with the Marauders, Lily laughing, Remus, James, Peter, Harry. He can remember everything now. A tear slides down his cheek at the feeling, of being alive once more.


He changes back into a dog and begins running up the beach, barking furiously and wagging his tail. He runs up, away from Azkaban, through hills and fields. He never stops running until he is completely exhausted and flops down beneath a tree, panting and out of breath. Perhaps he is running away from the past twelve years.


After a while, he gets up creakily, his limbs trembling with exhaustion. He wonders where he can find some food, but then decides to pursue that in the morning in favour of sleep.


That night, as he lies curled up beneath a tree, he sleeps soundly for the first time in years, dreaming happily of times long past. Sirius is alive once more, prisoner twenty-one, forty-three, eleven, ninety-nine left behind in the foaming surf.