theatrical muse prompt # 240 -- 1190 words
Talk about someone who scared you.
They slammed the door to the cell shut and locked away the key, like most jailers do. Only these jailers warded the bars with curses and hexes, a field to prevent me from escaping (or perhaps to keep my Dark Lord Voldemort out) and more traps and tricks than you'd see in a seventh year DADA classroom.
I wasn't sure who they were more afraid of, the Dark Lord himself coming to get his heir out of prison, or the wizard that he was coming to fetch. It was hard to tell, by the way they'd look at me, sometimes. Of course, sometimes they wouldn't even look at me. They would drop whatever food I was given through the door slot and then slam it closed.
Nobody wanted anything to do with the man who killed twelve muggles with a single spell. Nobody wanted anything to do with the man who murdered one of his best friends. Nobody wanted anything to do with the man responsible for giving away the secret of where James and Lily Potter and their brilliant little boy where hiding. Nobody wanted anything to do with me.
Everybody, however, wanted to do anything to me.
Any wizard who is worth his shit will tell you that physical pain is easily blocked out. Kicks, punches, slaps. Straps and iron, wooden boards, you name it, I can ignore it. But there is something about crucio that just...I can't describe it. I won't even try to.
They were scared. They were all scared, and they had reason to be. They used that reasoning to try and get me to talk. Try and get me to sing for them. To admit that I was the heir of the Dark Lord and that I had been the one to give away the secret. They asked why I'd done it.
"What made you snap, Black? What made you give away where your friends were hiding? What made you kill those muggles? What was it? Tell us. Tell us and the Ministry might let you go..."
They wanted a scapegoat to put in front of the public, a man to hold up by the collar while they shouted that they had everything under control. They wanted a man that they could turn and use against the Dark Lord. After all, I had nothing to lose, did I not? I was already trapped in Azkaban, already guilty in the eyes of so many. So why shouldn't I just admit to my crimes and the evidence against me, and buy myself a break?
Because I was innocent, that's why.
It didn't matter. Nobody believed a word I said. And over the course of those twelve years, I learned more about the human condition and more about myself than I frankly ever wanted to. Lessons. You see how brave a man truly is as you twist the knife in his side and murmur sweet nothings in his ear, and you catch the pain in his eyes, the anger. Even the guilt, if you're lucky.
There were times when I considered giving in to them. Times when I considered that maybe I should just drop the act and go back to that night. The night when I came a few minutes too late, to find Godric's Hollow in a panic, to find Hagrid taking my godson away, to find James and Lily gone, muggle authorities on the scene. Or the next time, when I screamed at him. He knew. I had been the secret keeper, yes. But we had switched it, and I just knew. It had been him. He was the heir of the Dark Lord. Not me.
Then he blew himself up and the world went to hell.
I began to wonder if I was guilty. Maybe I had lost control of my emotions and killed Peter, killed those muggles. Wandless magic is entirely possible when you're wrapped up in the heat of the moment. Maybe I had killed him because I knew he was the one who had betrayed James and Lily. Maybe I had killed those muggles to make a point. Maybe I was trying to get attention from the Dark Lord. Maybe I was guilty...
Time will do interesting things to the mind. Twelve years without seeing the sunrise, feeling a warm wind on my face, eating a good meal, twelve years knowing that my godson was growing up somewhere without me to watch over him, twelve years spent getting threatened with pain and torture to try and get me to talk, twelve years of slowly going mad, all those years hiding from the dementors, the periods of time where it was easier to hide from the world as a beast rather than the man I knew I was deep down...twelve years was a long time to feel that way.
It was near the end of my twelve years that I began to fear myself more than the dementors or the guards. The guards left me alone, at that point, for the most part. After all, Sirius Black was nothing but a madman who screamed when anyone came near the doors to his cell. Sirius Black was nothing but a soldier who had fought well for his master and then had been abandoned. Sirius Black was nothing more than a dog who deserved to be let starve to death to shut him up.
Little did they know, starving me to death was the best thing they ever could of done for old Padfoot. You see, when you spend twelve years growing afraid of the man inside your head, you find ways to ignore him. Lock him away. It was Padfoot who slipped the bars of the cell, it was Padfoot who evaded the dementors, it was Padfoot who swam across the North Sea in a storm so great the world seemed to be ending.
It was Padfoot who clawed his way onto that beach.
After all, Padfoot wasn't the wanted criminal. Padfoot wasn't being hunted for by the guards. Padfoot wasn't anything more than a shaggy black dog who begged for scraps from farmers and then killed their chickens before he left town. Padfoot wasn't crazy.
I never thought I went completely mad, but I scared myself when I realized that I was starting to believe the lies they were feeding me in an effort to get me to become their prized catch. I was never responsible for James and Lily's death. I never killed Peter. I never killed all those muggles that had come out to see what the shouting match was about. I was never the one who betrayed the Order. I was never Voldemort's right hand man. I was innocent.
I scared myself when I started to believe that I was guilty.
Madness is something you cannot control.
Sanity is all yours for the keeping, as long as you stick to your guns about it.
Or, in my case, sanity was mine as long as I reminded myself that it was not my fault.
And I do still find it amusing that it was an innocent man who was the first (and only) man to ever escape Azkaban and never be caught. Serves them bloody well right. Food was piss horrible anyway.
Sirius Black
Harry Potter
They slammed the door to the cell shut and locked away the key, like most jailers do. Only these jailers warded the bars with curses and hexes, a field to prevent me from escaping (or perhaps to keep my Dark Lord Voldemort out) and more traps and tricks than you'd see in a seventh year DADA classroom.
I wasn't sure who they were more afraid of, the Dark Lord himself coming to get his heir out of prison, or the wizard that he was coming to fetch. It was hard to tell, by the way they'd look at me, sometimes. Of course, sometimes they wouldn't even look at me. They would drop whatever food I was given through the door slot and then slam it closed.
Nobody wanted anything to do with the man who killed twelve muggles with a single spell. Nobody wanted anything to do with the man who murdered one of his best friends. Nobody wanted anything to do with the man responsible for giving away the secret of where James and Lily Potter and their brilliant little boy where hiding. Nobody wanted anything to do with me.
Everybody, however, wanted to do anything to me.
Any wizard who is worth his shit will tell you that physical pain is easily blocked out. Kicks, punches, slaps. Straps and iron, wooden boards, you name it, I can ignore it. But there is something about crucio that just...I can't describe it. I won't even try to.
They were scared. They were all scared, and they had reason to be. They used that reasoning to try and get me to talk. Try and get me to sing for them. To admit that I was the heir of the Dark Lord and that I had been the one to give away the secret. They asked why I'd done it.
"What made you snap, Black? What made you give away where your friends were hiding? What made you kill those muggles? What was it? Tell us. Tell us and the Ministry might let you go..."
They wanted a scapegoat to put in front of the public, a man to hold up by the collar while they shouted that they had everything under control. They wanted a man that they could turn and use against the Dark Lord. After all, I had nothing to lose, did I not? I was already trapped in Azkaban, already guilty in the eyes of so many. So why shouldn't I just admit to my crimes and the evidence against me, and buy myself a break?
Because I was innocent, that's why.
It didn't matter. Nobody believed a word I said. And over the course of those twelve years, I learned more about the human condition and more about myself than I frankly ever wanted to. Lessons. You see how brave a man truly is as you twist the knife in his side and murmur sweet nothings in his ear, and you catch the pain in his eyes, the anger. Even the guilt, if you're lucky.
There were times when I considered giving in to them. Times when I considered that maybe I should just drop the act and go back to that night. The night when I came a few minutes too late, to find Godric's Hollow in a panic, to find Hagrid taking my godson away, to find James and Lily gone, muggle authorities on the scene. Or the next time, when I screamed at him. He knew. I had been the secret keeper, yes. But we had switched it, and I just knew. It had been him. He was the heir of the Dark Lord. Not me.
Then he blew himself up and the world went to hell.
I began to wonder if I was guilty. Maybe I had lost control of my emotions and killed Peter, killed those muggles. Wandless magic is entirely possible when you're wrapped up in the heat of the moment. Maybe I had killed him because I knew he was the one who had betrayed James and Lily. Maybe I had killed those muggles to make a point. Maybe I was trying to get attention from the Dark Lord. Maybe I was guilty...
Time will do interesting things to the mind. Twelve years without seeing the sunrise, feeling a warm wind on my face, eating a good meal, twelve years knowing that my godson was growing up somewhere without me to watch over him, twelve years spent getting threatened with pain and torture to try and get me to talk, twelve years of slowly going mad, all those years hiding from the dementors, the periods of time where it was easier to hide from the world as a beast rather than the man I knew I was deep down...twelve years was a long time to feel that way.
It was near the end of my twelve years that I began to fear myself more than the dementors or the guards. The guards left me alone, at that point, for the most part. After all, Sirius Black was nothing but a madman who screamed when anyone came near the doors to his cell. Sirius Black was nothing but a soldier who had fought well for his master and then had been abandoned. Sirius Black was nothing more than a dog who deserved to be let starve to death to shut him up.
Little did they know, starving me to death was the best thing they ever could of done for old Padfoot. You see, when you spend twelve years growing afraid of the man inside your head, you find ways to ignore him. Lock him away. It was Padfoot who slipped the bars of the cell, it was Padfoot who evaded the dementors, it was Padfoot who swam across the North Sea in a storm so great the world seemed to be ending.
It was Padfoot who clawed his way onto that beach.
After all, Padfoot wasn't the wanted criminal. Padfoot wasn't being hunted for by the guards. Padfoot wasn't anything more than a shaggy black dog who begged for scraps from farmers and then killed their chickens before he left town. Padfoot wasn't crazy.
I never thought I went completely mad, but I scared myself when I realized that I was starting to believe the lies they were feeding me in an effort to get me to become their prized catch. I was never responsible for James and Lily's death. I never killed Peter. I never killed all those muggles that had come out to see what the shouting match was about. I was never the one who betrayed the Order. I was never Voldemort's right hand man. I was innocent.
I scared myself when I started to believe that I was guilty.
Madness is something you cannot control.
Sanity is all yours for the keeping, as long as you stick to your guns about it.
Or, in my case, sanity was mine as long as I reminded myself that it was not my fault.
And I do still find it amusing that it was an innocent man who was the first (and only) man to ever escape Azkaban and never be caught. Serves them bloody well right. Food was piss horrible anyway.
Sirius Black
Harry Potter