Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë
Epilogue

The prisoner slumbered.

And when he slumbered he dreamed.

And when he dreamed, he dreamed of Hogwarts.

And when he awoke, it was to the rattle of chains.

Just as he did every morning. Awoke to the rattle of chains and the clank of heavy steel gates.

"In the corner, prisoner," came the usual, rasped command.

The prisoner did as he was told. He crawled backwards away from the door and wallowed amongst the dank straw in the furthest corner from the door. It was where he belonged after all.

With nary a care, the jailer pushed open the door and stepped into the room. He had nothing to fear from the prisoner, after all. He was alone and friendless and without a wand. Without even the courage or constitution to fight.

The prisoner sat in the corner and gibbered at his captor, eyes wide with fright. The pale light through the bars on the window illuminated the misshapen face in wide streaks, making his craggy features appear all the more monstrous.

"Food," grunted the man, his twisted mouth making a mockery of even that simple syllable.

He dropped a tray to the floor, balanced upon it were a pewter plate and goblet of water. They each contained meagre portions, but it was certainly better than nothing from his perspective.

"Thank you," said the prisoner, from between his dry, cracked lips.

After all, his mother had always taught him to be polite. He had the scars to prove it, didn't he?

The jailer grunted and departed, closing the door behind him. The deadbolt flew home, colliding with a metallic clang that echoed through the room. The prisoner crawled towards the cold food and dirty water. But then the jailer broke routine. He didn't leave. Instead he lingered outside.

The prisoner couldn't eat like that. Not with him watching. Couldn't even think with him watching.

"You should clean up. You'll be having visitors today."

"Visitors?" asked the prisoner.

The word was foreign to him. Or was it? It was hard to think. His head was full of cobwebs and lint. Packed up with cotton wool.

"The Minister's coming to see you."

That didn't make any sense. Who would come to see him, other than his jailer and the ugly, faceless horrors?

"Why?"

"I dunno. I'm not going to ask the likes of him, am I?" asked the jailer. "Maybe they're coming to do away with you. Good riddance if they do."

But this was too many words for the prisoner to process. His brain ground to a halt and he just sat there, gibbering.

Then the jailer was gone, limping off up the corridor, chuckling a dark chuckle to himself. And the prisoner allowed his flesh mask to fall away, revealing his real face beneath. And he devoured the food and the water and howled from loneliness.

:nmb:

The sun was overhead by the time that his visitors arrived. He had plenty of warning for their arrival, his brain began to clear, for the first time in days. The cotton wool was scooped out and what little remained of his personality ladled back in.

He wished it hadn't.

Cold sweat, room spinning, vomiting, blood and thunder. He longed for death.

He still had the presence of mind to wipe the corners of his mouth and push the hair from his face.

After all, his mother had always taught him to be suitably groomed when receiving guests. He had the scars to prove it, didn't he?

A wild grin crossed his face at that thought. What might his darling mother have to say about his current situation? Probably that he was right where he deserved to be. Probably would've been right.

His father on the other hand, he would have been an entirely different manner.

He could see him in his mind's eye, sitting at the breakfast table, glancing at him over the top of the Daily Prophet that had been perpetually glued in his grasp.

'I am both ashamed and disgusted,' he'd have said, his lips pulled thin in disgust. 'That my son is so intellectually feeble and magically effete as to be confined by a mere prison. Perhaps if you worked harder at school—'

It was only as the dry, cruel voice reached a crescendo and echoed through the cell that he realised he'd been speaking his father's words aloud. His dad's vitriol painted on his own expression.

If only he had a mirror to see his face. People had always said they'd looked alike. His looks were the only nice thing Orion Black had ever given his son.

He heard the clank of the gate and crisp footsteps in the passage. Distant, but distinct voices chattered, surely the voices of the Minister and his cronies— they were far too convivial to be those of the guards.

Who even was the incumbent Minister? Millicent Bagnold had entered office shortly before his incarceration but he had no idea if this was still the case. Hadn't Barty Crouch been on the verge of ousting her? Perhaps Dumbledore had taken the position.

He shook his head; the fog was still there, in the corners of his mind. All his memories had become blurry and indistinct in the eleven years he'd spent with the dementors. As though his entire life was a novel he'd only half bothered to read.

But little by little the pieces of himself were falling back into place

He stood in the corner and drew himself up to his full height. He made another half-hearted attempt to tame his tangled, matted hair, but gave up on it. Instead he made do by dusting off his grimy prison uniform.

The door creaked open after a minute of heated conversation outside, with two unknown voices attempting to convince a third that it was dangerous for him to go in. The third man was having none of it, however and Sirius presumed that it was the voice of the Minister.

It didn't sound like Bagnold, Crouch or Dumbledore.

The two aurors, for this was what they were, entered first. Their wands were drawn and pointed at his heart.

"Kneel, prisoner," said the first. "Hands behind your head."

"Don't try anything stupid," said the second.

"Of course not," remarked Sirius, his tone congenial. "I wouldn't dream of it."

The two aurors shared a momentary, surprised glance at each other, before returning their attention to the matter at hand.

"The prisoner is secured, sir," the first called back into the hall.

"Thank you, Dawlish," came the response as the Minister entered the room.

Whoever Sirius had been expecting, it was not the man who entered the room. The person that stood before him was large and bloated, the pinstripe suit he wore giving him the unfortunate, unflattering look of a beach ball. His bowler hat, which was lime green, sat at a jaunty angle on his rumpled, grey hair. In one of his hands was his wand, in the other, folded into a neat square, was a newspaper.

"You," he exclaimed in surprise.

"Me," replied Cornelius Fudge, with a thin-lipped smile. "Who else were you expecting?"

"I'm not entirely sure," confessed Sirius. "I admit I'm a little behind current events, Minister. Congratulations, all the same. How long have you been in office?"

Fudge looked ill at ease. Why this would be the case, Sirius wasn't sure. Maybe the man was simply scared by the fact that he was a notorious mass murderer. He tried to offer the Minister a reassuring smile, but this only made Fudge shrink away, a visible look of distress on his features.

Sirius wasn't sure why this bothered him as much as it did. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd been so long with only Evan and the Dementors for company. Maybe he just needed to feel that familiar connection with another human being. Perhaps he was bored. Whatever the reason, he felt an overpowering urge to befriend Fudge.

"It's good to see you again," Sirius said, in an attempt to offer the man an olive branch. "I suppose the last time we met wasn't under quite as fortuitous circumstances, eh?"

"Fortuitous circumstances?" asked Fudge, his eyes flying wide at this proclamation. Then his brow furrowed into a severe frown. "What do you know, Black? What's happened to him?"

Sirius blinked in astonishment. Had Fudge gone mad? What was he blathering on about now? Wasn't he, Sirius Black, supposed to be the deranged killer?

"What's happened to who?" he asked, trying to adopt a placating grin.

He suspected, from Fudge's reaction, that the smile had been misinterpreted.

"Don't smirk at me, Black," hissed Cornelius, every syllable blazing with anger. "I can tell you know something. Where is he?"

This infuriated Sirius. He'd tried to be nice, he'd been nothing but pleasant with Fudge. Even if he was supposed to be a killer, he'd not provoked Fudge. The man was, at least in Sirius' opinion, a lunatic.

And that was saying something.

No longer interested in making friends with Fudge, Sirius instead decided to return to his roots. He was going to play a little game with the Minister, the man wanted information and Sirius was only too pleased to provide him with some.

Too bad for Fudge it was going to be complete nonsense.

"Want to know where he is, eh Minister?" he asked, lowering his tone to a conspiratorial level, his eyes gleaming with an excitement that was all too real. "Wouldn't you just love to know?"

"So you do know!" exclaimed the Minister. "Tell me!"

Hook, line and sinker.

"I've got nothing to say," replied Sirius, almost dancing with glee. "Not unless you've got something to offer me, Minister."

"If this is an attempt to extort your way out of Azkaban, Black, I can tell you that you won't get anywhere. We won't negotiate."

Sirius gave him a wild, mad grin, trying to look as mad. He didn't have to try hard. Fudge and the two aurors seemed to be lapping it up.

"Get out of Azkaban?" asked Sirius and laughed, a shrill, high laugh. It was a fair impression of Voldemort, one he hadn't intended. "Oh Minister, your mind is so small. No, I'm not negotiating my release— why negotiate for peanuts when you can play cards for the whole world?"

"The whole world?" asked Fudge. "Have you taken leave of your senses? What are you talking about?"

"Never mind that, Minister," said Sirius, giving the man a knowing wink. "I will tell you what it is you want to know, in exchange for a single galleon."

Fudge stared as though Sirius had grown an extra head and then farted the national anthem. The expression was such an odd combination of fear, disgust and intrigue that it was all Sirius could do not to begin rolling around on the floor.

But that would have given the game away. And the game was the first thing that had given Sirius any cause for excitement, pleasure or happiness in eleven years.

"A galleon?" asked Fudge.

"A galleon," said Sirius, grinning. "Come on, Minister, what can a single galleon hurt?"

And of course, it couldn't. That was the entire point. To ask for something so simple as to make Fudge wrack his brains worrying just what diabolical scheme Sirius might have.

"And you'll tell me where he is?"

"To the very best of my ability," promised Sirius, his voice as solemn as he could force it.

The Minister stood for a long while, staring at Sirius, clearly trying to account for every conceivable trap. When he came to the conclusion that there were none, he produced the coin and tossed it on the floor at Sirius' feet.

"There," he said. "Now tell me where I can find him."

Sirius made no effort to pick it up as it bounced across the cell. Instead he took a half step closer to Fudge, which prompted the aurors to stick their wands in his face.

"Now Minister," he said, his tone low and conspiratorial. "You're looking a little pale. I hear Spain is nice this time of year."

Fudge's eyes bulged.

"Spain?" he asked, in a strangled tone of voice. "You're telling me he's in Spain."

"I'm telling you nothing of the sort," replied Sirius, trying to sound offended. "I'm merely saying that if I were to want to go somewhere that I'd be unlikely to be found. It might be Spain. Especially at this time of the year."

Fudge stared at him, attempting read Sirius. But the man was an amateur and Sirius, despite being eleven years out of practice and more than a little mad, was a natural born liar. It was a foregone conclusion.

"Fine," said Fudge, after staring for nearly a minute. Then he looked to his aurors. "You heard him, quick, I need to open a dialogue with Madrid as soon as possible. I knew Dumbledore was mistaken when he said he'd merely run away. It was Death Eaters behind it."

The Minister turned to leave the room. Sirius spotted the newspaper tucked under his arm for the second time.

"Minister," he called after him. Fudge paused at the door. "Have you finished with your newspaper? You see, I do miss the crosswords."

Fudge flung it at him and then the three of them were out of the room, slamming the door behind them and then were away, striding down the corridor. Sirius gave a quiet little chuckle and bent down to pick up the paper.

Then he stopped dead, as though touching the Prophet had frozen him.

Because on the front page was a picture of James Potter. Except that it wasn't. It was a picture of a boy who looked almost identical to James, except that he bore a lightning bolt scar.

And Sirius knew, despite the picture being black and white, that he had vivid green eyes.

Because he'd seen them before.

The headline read 'POTTER MISSING'.

He opened his mouth and took a long, deep breath in preparation of screaming for Fudge. But he paused. The air was cold and his head was heavy.

"No," he said as the pieces of Sirius Black began to fall from his head. "No, no, no, no."

The prisoner allowed his flesh prison to fall away, revealing his true self beneath. He leaned back his head and howled his misery to the stone ceiling.

And then he curled up on the floor of his cell, shaggy head resting on his paws.

And when he slumbered, he dreamed of Hogwarts.

:nmb:

The prisoner slumbered.

And when he slumbered he dreamed.

And when he dreamed, he dreamed of Hogwarts.

And when he awoke, it was to the rattle of chains.

Just as he did every morning. Awoke to the rattle of chains and the clank of heavy steel gates.

"In the corner, prisoner," came the usual, rasped command.

The prisoner did as he was told. He crawled backwards away from the door and wallowed amongst the dank straw in the furthest corner from the door. It was where he wanted to be, after all.

With nary a care, the jailer pushed open the door and stepped into the room. He thought he had nothing to fear from the prisoner, after all. But the prisoner knew his jailer was alone and friendless and that his wand mattered not. Not in his sort of fight.

The prisoner sat in the corner and glowered at his captor, eyes narrow with intent. The pale light through the bars on the window illuminated the long snout in wide streaks, making his shaggy features appear all the more monstrous.

"Food," grunted the man, his twisted mouth making a mockery of even that simple syllable.

The prisoner pounced.

He dropped a tray to the floor, balanced upon it were a pewter plate and goblet of water. They each spilled their meagre portions, but it wouldn't matter now, not from his perspective.

"Thank you," barked the prisoner, from between his wet, blooded teeth.

After all, his mother had always taught him to be polite. He had the scars to prove it, didn't he?

The jailer grunted and died, leaving the door open behind him.

Padfoot bowled down the corridor at top speed, wind rushing over his sleek fur and into his eyes, overjoyed to be able to blow out the cobwebs. His canine legs, once powerful and balanced, had been weakened by years of inactivity. His nose, once perfectly attuned to sensing his environment had been dulled by the stench of Azkaban.

Nonetheless his strides were purposeful and his nose was keen. The thrill of adventure rushed through his blood and took him back to those long forgotten nights. Nights he'd capering across the grounds of Hogwarts under the full moon with his friends. Nights of which he'd only dreamed

At the end of the long corridor he slowed and hesitated, just for a moment. In eleven long years, this was the furthest he had ever been from his cell. He felt a little stab of terror as he pushed onwards, but disregarded it. He knew that only one thing mattered now; finding Harry.

Since he'd last travelled this way, they'd made improvements to the security; two dementors stood either side of a cast iron gate. They might have blocked the way for any other escapee, but Sirius was past them and wriggling through the bars before they'd any chance to react.

Not that they even seemed to notice him as he disappeared off into the depths of Azkaban.

:nmb:

Padfoot gasped for breath.

Even with his layer of fur, the water was cold enough to shock the air from his lungs and leave his head ringing. The North Sea stretched to every horizon and the northern skies howled with fury.

Padfoot howled back with all his might, overcome with anger.

Perhaps he ought to be covering as much distance as he possibly could if he intended to evade his inevitable pursuers, but he couldn't resist a single glance behind him. He stared at the prison, admiring how it towered into the sky, raking at the clouds.

Escaping Azkaban had been ludicrously simple because he, Sirius Black, was an incredible and devastatingly handsome wizard. And perhaps because nobody had expected him to try. The other prisoners weren't really held captive by guards and steel and stone and ocean— those were to keep people out. The true bars were in their minds.

But not so for Sirius Black, who had known he was innocent, and that had made all the difference.

For while others had been trapped by their nightmares—

He had dreamed of Hogwarts.