Chapter Text
November 2, 1981
Lie On Your Back And Think of England
To say Auror Sirius Black, 20 (alright, virtually 21), was in the s__t was far too modest an estimate. To say he was f___ed, likewise. He would probably die there in Azkaban, after all. It was just a day or two after an eventful Halloween. Trick or Treat! And let's specify, not the "treat" option.
And Harry would be at Petunia Dursley's dungeon until he grew up and couldn't take it and snuffed himself, or the Dursley family, or both.
At least one good thing came from this: if by some miracle he were ever cleared, he'd get payback on Albus Dumbledore. Clearly, he would get no help. For whatever reason, the c__t was going along with Peter's frame.
Sirius didn't give a bloody f__k what the reason was. A favour to Snivvy? To Barty Crouch? Control of Harry as some sort of pawn? The details didn't matter.
Of course, he mused, curling into a ball to stay warm, hopeful thoughts like payback against the rat or the bat or the fraud-master, memories of how innocent he had been, those would be the first to go.
In Azkaban.
November 3, 1981
Happy Birthday!
New, and yet newly liberated, Azkaban captive Sirius Black was confused but had nothing left to lose. Probably no other state of affairs would have left him blindly trusting Xenophilius Lovegood. Especially with tasks that were odd even for the famously eccentric wizard. But, he reflected, the fact that he was here, in a ritual space in a cave near Ottery St. Catchpole, was evidence that trusting Xeno was the wisest choice at hand.
It would never have occurred to Sirius that Azkaban’s anti-portkey wards would not stop an animagus in his animal form from being port-keyed out. Of course, he had only spent a day there, but still ... Xeno often behaved as if the laws of magic were arbitrary, but it was still impressive. As a Black, Sirius knew he was participating in a costly and rare blood ritual, but if Xeno was willing to sacrifice to have him go through it, he was eager to pay him back for his freedom.
It seemed to combine things he’d learned couldn’t be combined, when he’d been at Hogwarts. Interestingly, the message smuggled to Sirius in his cell had included instructions to memorise the entire ritual, potions to chants. It was quite the ritual, it seemed to combine blood sacrifice, time travel, soul magic and exorcism in a way that defied Arithmantic analysis. If Xeno weren’t insane, he reflected, he might be the cleverest wizard of their generation.
He felt magic rising up, then incredible pain, then everything went dark.
He wasn’t in the cave anymore when he woke up, but in a dark, cramped space. He felt completely weak and helpless. He remembered being instructed that he wouldn’t be able to speak, but instead should beat his hands and feet in a pattern that completed the ritual. He remembered it, but it was painful and almost impossible to do. Nonetheless, as he went through the motions, he felt magic rising again.
For whatever reason, his body was now not only utterly feeble but also highly sensitive to the ritual's pain. Sirius screamed. Before he blacked out again, he heard a loud voice shouting “I’ll give the little freak something to scream about, you see if I don’t, Petunia!” and a woman’s voice mumbling something like “just a baby.”
And now, here he was.
He hadn't even held out one night, Sirius; he'd utterly lost the plot, worse than Bellatrix. Unless he was dreaming, but who had elaborate dreams in Azkaban that weren't drawn-out nightmares? Not one thing made sense. He was on a literal feather bed, for one thing. For another, he was a bit cold (though not like his cell in Hell), even though snuggled away in a feather bed with a quilt and coverlet. He made to move, and -- his joints; they creaked. Like a rusted gate they creaked. Made an actual "crick!" noise, or at least a quiet pop, as he moved. And hurt quite a bit. Nevertheless, he brought his hands to his face and encountered a long, long beard. In the dim light, it seemed to be pure white.