It was cold. That's what I remember the most -- more than the screaming, more than the terror, more than the seize of panic that would start slowly in your gut then suddenly wrench itself inside your throat -- the cold. It was always cold.

Morning and night were indistinguishable. There were no windows in my cell, no means of telling the time of day, no way of knowing. And no matter what time it could've possibly been, it was always cold. Sometimes were more bearable than others. Those were the times when the Dementors were farthest away. The air was still cool, still caused your shoulders to shudder with each passing gust, but it was tolerable. Or as tolerable as can be expected in Azkaban.

And then there were the times the Dementors were closest. Cold doesn't begin to describe what you'd experience. At first it would be the same -- the same slow minutes, or were they hours or days, or months even? Unthinkably, could they be years? Stretching out before you? You'd look down at yourself to see if you looked any older, but by that time you'd realise that you looked older the moment you were shoved into your cell. Time can be cruel.

But then there was the slight change in the air, the small feeling of panic that you'd try to rationalise, try to pass off as nothing, but in no time (or was it hours? Was it days? Could it be weeks and weeks later?) your skin was crawling and your throat ached from the harsh, wintry air, and the panic was crawling up your throat and spreading through your body and it was cold, so cold, so unbelievably freezing. You wanted to tear at your own flesh to let loose the hot blood inside of you, and some did, some clawed their skin right off their own bodies, scratching and screaming and begging and pleading for warmth, for it to end, for it not to get any worse.

Wishful thinking will get you nowhere in Azkaban.Then they were there. You didn't see them by that point -- all you could see was their faces, the expressions of sorrow and anger and hatred and disappointment and revulsion and anything, anything and everything, every last wretched sob, every last harsh word, every last cry of pain, all splayed out before you, images swirling and tumbling over each other, pouring through your mind and crowding your vision, until it was too much and your throat hurt from screaming. Apologies and regrets, pleading and begging for forgiveness, for ablution, for your wrongs to be righted, and for it all to stop.

My own memories were scattered and disjointed, mixed together and torn apart, bits and pieces and fragments of the past, all surging maddeningly through me until I was convinced I'd go insane. Like I hadn't already. There were the moments I'd remember with words (I can't be with you anymore) the pain and the anger and the sadness behind them (--you, I trusted you, Sirius), the knowledge that I'd ruined it all (They'll never suspect him! It's foolproof, James, trust me) ruined everything. (Always were the weak one -- never like your brother -- I trusted you, Sirius -- How could you do this to me? -- I can't be with you anymore -- it hurts, Sirius, can't you understand that? I hurt. And you were the one that hurt me) and it just. Never. Stops.

And then there were the moments I'd remember, the ones without any words. Those were images that flew through my mind, crowded behind my eyelids, which I had screwed up tightly when the screaming began, and those were worse, more fragmented, because words can only say so much.

There was Remus touching my hair and smiling and

he was looking away with tears in his eyes because I

had then kissed him deeply, parting his lips with my own as I deepened the kiss and he

was suddenly pushing me away and snarling at me, a gesture he had never, ever shown me before, and it was

all because James had smiled that smile and hugged me the way he always did, and we'd grinned and had a drink but by then it was too late, I could see his body

but I couldn't move, because Remus was on top of me, moving inside of me, and my arms

were tightly gripping his shoulders when I asked him if he ever wanted me to hurt him, and

the look in his eyes when I'd stare down at him, murmuring words of love and dedication, promising that

I would never hurt him, I knew I hurt him by the way he wouldn't look at me, wouldn't speak to me, and now matter how

hard I try it always made me beam when I held Harry, always made my heart soar, and I could

swear that no matter what, they were dead, and nothing would bring them back, and Remus, Remus would look at me and he would--

I hate you. You're a disappointment. Failed. You promised us, Sirius. Failed. You're a disappointment. You said you loved me, I know now how you really feel. I can't be with you. Don't touch me. You're nothing. Failed. Murderer. We all know the truth. I know, Sirius. Murderer. Murderer. God, why is it so cold?

I wake up screaming again and Remus is awake in an instant, his arms around me even as I howl and thrash and cry. It always takes me a few moments before I can remember where I am, remember that Remus is right there, that I don't have to go back there, that I'm going to live. I turn and I burrow against Remus, shaking as I wrap myself around him, needing him more than ever. I run my hands over his bare back to reassure myself, and I can always feel him shiver. Sometimes he murmurs. When I'm coherent enough to hear it, I know he says “--you're so cold, Sirius.”

I'm always cold.
It's what I remember best.

What they say is true.

It just. Never. Stops.