Time dragged on. He tried to keep track of the days, but it was hard. Trying to scratch marks onto the wall for each day was useless. A constant storm around the prison smeared day and night into a monotonous slide that couldn’t be tracked. There was no set schedule for anything, not food, not time in the small, open spaces of the prison. So, time goes on, and the only way to track it is his increasingly poor health. Skin adheres to bone, and his joints ache. His dreams are strange, and sometimes, it’s hard to separate reality from dream. He sleeps when he can, to try and escape reality, but he’s still tired all of the time. Worse, his dreams feature Azkaban more and more, meaning there is no escape.