Two of a Kind

Stan stared blearily at the penetrating eyes which peered beadily back at him through the small barred grille in the cell door.

The eyes were scrutinising the progress Azkaban was making on its latest prey, which had been here nearly a fortnight now. There had been no more reports of him refusing to eat, but in despite he had lost sufficient weight to become yet another withered, living skeleton which typified the Azkaban prison population. He had only been here a fortnight and his eyes had already acquired the deadened, haunted look of Azkaban, which reflected a deadened, languid mind within. That was gratifying; such a thing was usually the trait of the longer-term prisoner.

The beady eyes narrowed in contempt while the mind behind them cogitated on what a pathetic little weed the spotty jug-eared runt was. It was hard to fathom what You-Know-Who would see in a wimp like him. Couldn't be because You-Know-Who wanted free rides aboard the Knight Bus, surely? He definitely belonged in the rank of feeble prisoner - the type who wouldn't have lasted a single day back in the good old days of the Dementors. The only reason he had lasted this long was because there were no Dementors to break him like an egg.

There came a slight chortle. Dementors or no Dementors, the runt still wouldn't last. He was far too weak, a far cry from his predecessor in that cell. As a matter of fact, he was an utterly disappointing choice of successor. His predecessor would be so ashamed to be succeeded by this contemptible spotty-faced piece of s***. He was following in footsteps that were far, far too big for him - quite literally! There was another jeering chortle at the puny little heap as he huddled in the dark silhouette which had been scoured into the wall by the huddling of his predecessor. He was so scrawny in comparison to his predecessor that the dark silhouette made an embarrassing dark halo around his pathetic little body. It was utterly hysterical...

The eyes gave a final scowl of contempt before disappearing from the grille and be replaced by a fading footfall.

*~*~*

"Hope you enjoy following in Black's footsteps!"

That was what the other guard had snarled, before turning on his heel and stomping out of Stan's cell. And in an odd, ironic sort of way, Stan was enjoying - well at least, feeling painfully honoured - at following in Black's footsteps. After all, he had always relished being associated with celebrities on the Knight Bus and spinning embroidered yarns about it afterwards. Now here he was, following in the very footsteps of a celebrity - even if it was a celebrity whose name still bore a lingering stigma as one of the most infamous in the wizard world. He was following in the footsteps of a celebrity who had rotted away in this very cell for twelve long years, branded the second-most infamous dark wizard of all time, next to You-Know-Who himself. The most notorious prisoner ever to be thrown into this hell-hole, not least because he was the very first prisoner to break the bloody well out of here and take the whole bleedin' wizard world by surprise!

Fat chance of Stan following those footsteps that closely and break the bloody well out of here himself. No, he was doomed to rot because of his stupid great flapping north and south and that stupid bleedin' Ministry which had thrown him in here without giving him a chance. They didn't even say how long it was going to be, which had been something they had at least told Sirius Black. And from the way they had treated him, they would certainly be in no hurry to release him. Lock him up for suspected Death Eater activity and then eat humble pie by admitting they got it wrong? Stan Shunpike, condemned (or as good as) Death Eater, was only another Sirius Black, locked up because the Ministry got it wrong again? Not bloody likely!

So it looked like it was going to be an eternity before Stan got out. And what's more, it was most likely he would be out of here in a body bag than the Ministry letting him out and getting yet another load of egg on its face. Already it felt like he had been here for a bottomless black eternity, although the new etches in the wall told him that he had been here for about a fortnight, give or take.

Stan gazed wearily at the inscription for what must have been the millionth time now:

I AM SIRIUS BLACK. I AM INNOCENT

Stan squirmed as he remembered somebody's voice echo "I am innocent!" the first time, just before he noticed it. And that voice was not his own voice, shrieking his own helpless innocence against this cesspool. It had definitely been another voice, heard as clear as day, as if it was standing right beside Stan, sharing his new quarters. Yet there was nobody there, only the inscription on the wall.

Stan couldn't stop thinking about that. Had he been going stark raving bonkers or what? Did he hear his voice all wrong or summat? Or...was it something to do with Sirius Black himself...?

Stan shook his head furiously. No, he mustn't start thinking things like that about Black again, or he would really lose his marbles...

Anyway, now that inscription was followed by a new, freshly-carved inscription. Like its predecessor, it was being gouged over and over to reinforce its message both into the depths of Azkaban and the prisoner's sanity:

I AM STAN SHUNPIKE. I AM INNOCENT

Just carving that had given Stan a fixed foothold against the quagmire of relentless despair that had been groping to drag and suck him under forever in its merciless, soul-sucking grip. And here was his own inscription, carved indelibly into the wall, and it could not be erased by the lingering soul-sucking power of the Dementors, or what was left of 'em.

"Oh, so you do fancy yourself as another Sirius Black?" The guard had snarled as if he was about to choke on his own disgust. A horrible look flashed across his face, as if he were about to beat the livin' daylights out of Stan Shunpike or summat for fancyin' himself as another Sirius Black. Stan felt himself lucky as the Boy Who Lived when the guard let him off with spitting down into his face before storming out of the cell.

That was the only time the guards had been back to check on Stan Shunpike. He hadn't seen them since. It was as if, in a most odd way, the new etchings were confirmation and reassurance to the guards that this prisoner had snapped out of his pathetic attempt to starve himself to death and they had no further need to check up on him.

They were not checking up on any new etchings either, in spite of what they read:

WE'RE TWO OF A KIND

"...Foul, despicable Death Eater...utterly contemptible...a mere bus conductor, turned out to be a loathesome Death Eater...I hold you in the highest contempt...you are the lowest of the low, you pathetic little Death Eater..."

"I'm innocent, I'm innocent!" Stan had kept shrieking ...and then he felt an odd uplifting invigoration swelling within him...the cobwebs all blew away and his depression had been banished as his mind was filled with an inexplicable, invigorating defiance that seemed impervious to the soul-destroying Azkaban...

"...Foul, despicable traitor...you betrayed your dearest friend, the man who was almost a brother to you...and all for what, you loathsome, Death Eater?

And then, from somewhere, came words spoken by that same voice that Stan had heard from somewhere in this cell and could not explain:

"I think the only reason I never lost my mind is that I knew I was innocent. That wasn't a happy thought so the Dementors couldn't suck it out of me, but it kept me sane and knowing who I am..."

Finally...

ANY MORE COMING TO JOIN US?

Well, why not? Stan himself was living proof that the Ministry had learned absolutely nothing from its treatment of Sirius Black. Nope, they were doing it all over again. If they had done it to him, what was to stop them doing it to someone else?

If Azkaban took the life of Stan Shunpike, suppose another poor prisoner of the same kind came to this very cell? If he had been capable of smirking right now, Stan would have been beaming while his imagination conjured up what impudent inscriptions might then be added to the walls:

YOU BET!

YOU CAN SAY THAT AGAIN!

WE'RE THREE OF A KIND NOW!

WHAT ELSE DO YOU EXPECT WITH THE MINISTRY OF MORONS?

WELL, THE MORE THE MERRIER - IF "MERRIER" IS POSSIBLE IN THIS PLACE...

*~*~*

Stan clutched himself more intensely as he huddled further into the mark on the wall where he knew Sirius Black himself once huddled to endure the worst moments of his own life over and over. It was in this very corner that Black repeated over and over that he was innocent to clutch ever more desperately to his threads of sanity. Although Stan had no way to know, it was in this very corner that Black had retreated into his canine refuge to alleviate the ceaseless torture.

Stan's moments of lying on the floor, an anguished jellyfish, had retreated. Now he was cringing in sickening dread at the very thought of other poor innocent souls being thrown in here, people just as innocent as he was, just so the Ministry could make itself look good, show it was doing something to round up those Death Eaters - Ha!

His imagination ran wild again as it conjured up ever more horrible images of innocent people being hauled up before the Wizengamot, trembling helplessly as they were being chucked in here, and very likely for even less reason than himself. At least his stupid great north and south had given them some reason to believe he might be linked with Death Eaters, however daft the idea...vivid, ghastly fantasies image of that barmy judge blasting innocent people for even less reason than himself before throwing them in here were even more ghastly than the true memory of Stan's own blasting.

*~*~*

As Stan huddled even further down into that corner, there emerged far more ghastly fantasies...images which seemed all the more frequent when he was sleeping...and the strangest thing was, they did not even feel to be his own...

There was the face of yet another raving judge who bore down on Stan, thundering that he was the deepest, foulest traitor who had betrayed his dearest, life-long friends, had blown innocent Muggles and one hapless wizard away just to feed his pathetic little insanity...

Images of a cataclysmic explosion that seemed to blind him...a street blown to shreds, reduced to instant rubble, people screaming and ears filled with the cacophony of hideous, frenzied laughter...

Howls of anguish, rages and tears that beat helplessly against yet another pile of rubble...the remains of a house still fresh and smouldering...and the dreaded, terrifying Dark Mark silhouetted against the stark night sky, unfurling and uncoiling its venomous serpent tongue from the maw of its jaws...the wails of a baby clutched tightly in Stan's arms, its forehead newly-scarred and bleeding...

There were images of rotting away in this very cell. The only difference was that in these nightmares Stan was being well and truly assaulted by the power of the Dementors, and there was no escape from them. They stood outside his door day and night; they never left him any peace...there could be no escape from the relentless destruction of even the tiniest smidgen of happiness. Not when his happiest memories were being stripped away, and swallowed down the bottomless gullets of those fearsome creature. Then came, the cries of anguish as his very soul drowned in a cold, black pit of unearthly despair, rendering him a helpless, trembling wreck...

"Ah, just like the good old days!" smiled yet another guard as he paused at Stan's cell on the night round. "Shunpike's shrieking in his sleep. Almost had me thinking the Dementors were back for a moment. He must be having nightmares about Dementors crawling all over him. What a moron - seeing Dementors when there aren't any."

Added to that, there was the ghastly, unrelenting guilt...the guilt that it was all your own stupid fault that they had died. You and your bright ideas! It was as good as if you had done it with your own two hands. That awful, mind-consuming guilt countermanded the thought that you were innocent and it weakened your defences against the ravages of Azkaban. You just couldn't escape it, there was no let-up, so it would steadily erode your mind, eat away at your sanity until you were left as a doddering, ravaged shell that would wither away and die...except when...

It was at this point with these weirdo hallucinations that Stan felt he must be well and truly going bonkers...

You couldn't feel it so bad. Sure, you could feel miserable, your tail would droop and you would whine, but you just couldn't feel it so much.

Because your feelings were more...primitive.

Because you weren't even human.

You couldn't be human. Not when, your face was buried in paws, and humans don't have paws.

Paws?!?

'E weren't even human! 'E 'ad turned into a cherry!

Well, that proved it. 'E 'ad gone off the deep end all right, if 'e was dreamin' 'e was turning into a cherry.

On the other hand...

Was he following in his predecessor's footsteps after all? Dimly, Stan remembered reading that Black had been an unregistered Animagus, could turn into a cherry 'og, 'e did. He broke out of here, just because he could turn into a cherry an' trot right past them Dementors on his own four paws. They couldn't sense him so well when 'e was a cherry, or summat.

Wot's more, bein' an Animagus was 'ow he survived this cesspit. Turnin' into a cherry didn't make it so bad because 'e couldn't feel it so bad. Animals couldn't feel it as bad as people did.

Ah, that must be it. 'E must be getting inside old Black's loaf, feelin' 'ow 'e felt when 'e turned into a cherry...say, it worked all right. Stan didn't feel so rotten when 'e got these feelings flooding into 'is loaf that 'e was in a cherry's body.

If 'e was goin' bonkers, so what? Let it all flood in, the inklin's that 'e was becomin' a cherry. If it was the only way to stop feelin' so rotten, what the 'eck. Anythin', so's long as it stopped 'im feelin' so rotten. Stan sank back into his corner and readily let all those canine sensations flood into his mind, never mind if it was going to tip him over the edge into madness...

*~*~*

It was now another night in Azkaban. The day and date mattered not; they were lost in the interminable monotony which blurred one day and one night into one another...

It was now approaching midnight. The witching hour was very much relevant. At least, it was going to be for the cell that had once held Azkaban's most infamous prisoner, and now held the pathetic little bus conductor that Azkaban deemed unworthy to be his successor.

Midnight struck.

Midnight heralded an eerie, formidable wisp which began to billow out in one corner of the cell. It swelled and crystallised into something more substantial, yet without any distinct form. It paused, as if it was unsure as to what form to take. It seemed to swell upwards, as if about to take the form of a human being. Then it stopped, as if it had changed its mind. The wisp shrank down and expanded into something more horizontal...

It materialised.

It was the Grim, the black dog of Death.

At least, that was what any wizard would assume it was. Unless, of course they were one of the few wizards who would immediately recognise Padfoot, the Animagus form of Sirius Black.

As he looked around, Padfoot quailed softly and growled angrily at the sight of his old cell. Gingerly he padded around, sniffing, whining and pawing at the walls, as if he were a cat on the prowl, establishing its territory against any new usurpers in the neighbourhood.

He came to a dead stop at his old, familiar corner.

He eyed the new form which lay there. It seemed so small and pathetic flanked against the silhouette he had rubbed into the wall.

He lowered his head to give the little form an establishing sniff.

He then trod back slightly and gave a commiserating tail wag to the Jack Russell terrier which lay curled up in the corner. If it had been Stan Shunpike right now, he would have been tossing restlessly as he moaned and cried helplessly at the nightmares which plagued the repose of the Azkaban prisoners. But Stan Shunpike had learned the trick: sleep in Animagus form and it's not so bad. Animals can't have the same types of dreams that humans do.

Padfoot gave an approving wuff. This was a man after his own heart. He had learned well, absorbing the secret of the Animagus spell through embracing the lingering presence of Sirius Black. He probably hadn't even realised he had what had happened to him, yet they were two of a kind...

The Jack Russell slept on, totally oblivious to the visit of the ghost dog. Except, maybe, for the sudden twitching of its ears, before it huddled ever more deeply into its paws.

THE END