The salty wind slipped through the cracks of Azkaban as Barty Crouch Jr.’s voice grew louder, dripping with malice as he spoke to the man in the cell across the hall.

“Funny, isn’t it, Black?” he said, eyes gleaming with humor. “You were always Potter’s mutt—loyal to a fault, kneeling at his feet. I never bought the betrayal story, not really. But no one else believed you, did they? Not even Dumbledore.” Sirius, breathless and trembling on the damp floors, didn’t respond.

Barty leaned closer, lips curling into a grin. “And now look at you. All those years of yelling, and still no one listens. Maybe you should’ve joined us—you might’ve had a cell with a view.” His laugh scratched at Sirius’s sanity like a dull, rusted blade.