1.

Daytime.

Gray ceiling. Gray walls. Grey sky outside, over a steely gray ocean.

Black shadows outside his door.

And he thinks: I'm innocent.

Nighttime.

Black ceiling. Black walls. A roiling black ocean under a black sky pierced with stars. He used to be a star. He was named after one; he used to shine like one too.

But the black shadows are still outside his door.

So he thinks: I'm innocent.

Daytime again.

Gray ceiling. Gray walls. Grey sky outside, over a steely gray ocean.

The black shadows are still outside his door.

I'm innocent, he thinks. Innocent and bored.

That was the worst, he thought. Yes, sometimes the cold was unbearable, the dementors were ever present and creepy, the monotony was frustrating, and the screaming and crying at night was frankly unhinging, but the boredom was the worst. It gave him nothing to do but think, and after twelve years in the same gray room with the same gray walls and ceiling and tiny, barred window, he'd more than exhausted all possible topics for thought.

James and Lily were dead, and it was his fault. He was innocent, but it was his fault. It had taken him a few of months to get his mind around that particular paradox, but he'd managed it. Harry was an orphan and it was his fault. No matter how often he thought about that, he still nearly cried every time. Peter was dead too, but that was his own damn fault. Sirius loved it. It was a joke. A great big cosmic joke that no one but he got. And Remus...

He tried not to think about Remus.

Sirius lay on his back on his dirty little cot, under his dirty gray blanket, his arms folded up under his head. He was watching his ceiling darken as the sun went down. The gray always slid down into black in the same way. Everything was monochrome: just a different shade of gray.

"- Black, isn't it?" a nervous voice said from the hallway. "How's he been doing?"

The answer to the man's question wasn't audible, and there was only one set of footsteps on the stone floor, but the drop in temperature meant he wasn't alone; more dementors were coming.

Still, it was a break in the monotony.

Sirius stood, ignoring the crusty, grimy sweep of his hair and went to his door to peer between the bars just in time to make the Minister of Magic jump back in fright. Cornelius Fudge stood a good ways away from Sirius' door between two dementors, nervously wringing a copy of the Daily Prophet between his pudgy hands. His face was incredibly pale beneath his lime green bowler hat. Sirius stared at the hat for a moment; it was a marvelous break in the monochromatic scheme of Azkaban.

Once he managed to tear his eyes away from the color, Sirius looked Fudge in the eye and, in a gravelly voice that he barely recognized as his own, said, "Hello, Minister."

Fudge squeaked and Sirius found a perverse pleasure in frightening him. "Black," Fudge said. "Er... Hello."

"Are you finished with your paper?" Sirius asked evenly.

"Er..."

"It gets rather boring in here," Sirius explained. "And I miss the crossword."

"Oh, well... Yes, I- I suppose it would," Fudge said breathlessly. "Get boring, I mean. Here you are-" He took a half step forward and slid the crumpled and twisted paper in between the bars.

Sirius reached out slowly and took it. "Thank you," he said, and went back to sit on his cot, ignoring Fudge's worried whispering at the Dementors outside his cell. He started reading right where Fudge had left off- some inane article about a pygmy-puff infestation of some level of the Ministry. Then on to an article about the newest broom model: the Firebolt, that made him ache just to have enough room to stretch out completely when he laid down, let alone room to fly a broom. He kept reading hungrily, (he hadn't read in so long that he was surprised he remembered how) soaking up the information, the news. This paper was wonderful; a glimpse into the world he'd been cut out of. When he reached the crossword he took the page and folded it carefully, setting it on the cot beside him. After that he had to stand and go to the window for light to read by. The moon was full and he remembered all the times he and James and Peter had all gone out running with Moony, thought about what Remus was doing right now, alone, and he felt as if someone had grabbed his heart and twisted.

So he focused on the Prophet and continued reading. Slowly, he made his way through the pages and articles. When he reached the end he flipped it over so he could read the first half as well. He smiled faintly at the picture of the big, happy family and was about to read the caption and accompanying article when he froze.

For a moment it seemed like everything stopped, then he sucked in a lungful of air and brought the picture closer to his face, tilting it to catch more light. As he stared at the rat on the young boy's shoulder his heart was beating wildly, and a black surge of anger was rising in him.

Peter!

How had that filthy little rat-

The answer hit him like a lightning bolt. The sewer. He must have transformed and escaped into the sewer. Sirius looked closer, but couldn't see if the rat had all his toes, but he knew he didn't. Peter must have cut it off himself. That took guts, more guts than Sirius would have thought Peter Pettigrew had...

He looked at the caption, then, wondering who this family was with a murderer in their midst- The Weasleys. Some of the children were going to Hogwarts. Sirius was amazed Dumbledore hadn't recognized Peter for what he truly was. True, Dumbledore didn't know he was an animagus and Peter Pettigrew was probably the last person Dumbledore would expect to see, but Dumbledore was supposed to be clever-

A different thought occurred to him, and he did some math in his head. Harry was twelve, almost thirteen. Harry would be at Hogwarts.

With Peter.

Sirius threw the paper down and screamed in fury. A shadow crossed in front of his door as a dementor looked in on him, but he didn't care. He paced as far as he could in his tiny cell, his mind racing. He was at Hogwarts. Peter was at Hogwarts, and he was the only one who knew it. As soon as Voldemort came back- and Sirius was sure he eventually would- Peter would be right there, perfectly positioned. He had to do something... but what? He wanted to break out, and for more reasons than to kill Peter, but he knew better than to think he could pull that off. He also wanted to tell Remus. He wanted to show Remus that Peter was alive, that he hadn't killed all those people, he hadn't betrayed James and Lily... but how would he do that? Write him a letter?

Dear Remus, I know that last time I saw you I beat you bloody and raped you, but I want you to know that I'm really not that bad of a guy. I even have a picture of a rat to prove it...

Yes, that sounded lovely.

He had to do something. The urgency of that thought was like a fire in his veins. He had to do something. But first he needed to think, and to think he needed to calm down, so he closed his eyes and concentrated. After a moment of dizziness and slight itching, he opened his eyes as a dog. Things were easier to process this way. Simpler.

So he started to pace, and he started to think, and that fire kept burning.

-

-

A/N:

hello, everyone!! So, this is the sequel to A Failure to Communicate. (Fun fact, as of today, {12/14/09} AFtC is a year old! I feel so proud, like my baby's all grown up, or something. lol) and... yeah. Is anyone excited? I am. What do you think so far? Thanks for reading!