DISCLAIMER: Sadly, neither Sirius or Sev are mine - I'm only borrowing them. They belong to J K Rowling and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N 1: This is another revised fic I deleted a while back, one I wrote whilst listening to Pink's "Please Don't Leave Me." If you listen to the lyrics first, this shambles of a fic should hopefully, make some sort of sense !

A/N 2: Pt I, "A Mutt's Musings" is Sirius' pov.

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The Flip Side ...

Pt. I: A Mutt's Musings

If I'm honest, I'm not sure which is worse, the boredom or the loneliness. All I know is that they're both irrevocably entwined and imprisoned as I am, there's no escape from either. I dread both, as I fear I'm gradually losing my mind ...

Here I am, Sirius Black, the lone heir of the Noble House of Black, still without my much longed for freedom. Incarcerated in what could be classed as the family tomb - or what's better known as my ancestral home, 12 Grimmauld Place.

Home ? Huh ! That's a laugh ... It's more like a bloody prison. A cold, dark, depressing place that crushes your spirit and rapes your soul before stealing both away, leaving nothing but an empty husk where your heart once resided. With nothing but a hippogryff and a vile house elf (that I inherited with this mausoleum) for company, it's hardly surprizing that I'm the way I am. Full of self-loathing and hating the situation I find myself in, as well as beginning to lose what tenuous grip I have on my fragile sanity ...

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I must be going mad. Otherwise, how do I explain why I look forward so much to the Order meetings that are regularly held here ? Why I live for them ? At the back of my mind I know the answer's undeniable. It's because he will be here ... The one man I've hated with an insatiable passion since my wild and reckless youth at Hogwarts.

Who knows, maybe things could've been so much different between us - if it hadn't been for what happened at the Whomping Willow many moons ago. We could've been friends, but my immature pride and anger destroyed all hope of that ...

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I remember a time when his dark, obsidian eyes would gaze at me with warmth, hope and desire, but my cruel, misjudged prank at the Willow ruined everything. I suppose staring death in the face does change everything and since that fateful night under the full moon, those striking, highly intelligent eyes have continued to view me with nothing but icy contempt and fathomless mistrust.

I returned that hate tenfold, for I crave adoration. I need to be loved and to feel loved. I abhor the fact that he loathes me with such intensity, although I know deep down that I only have myself to blame. The hostility between us rapidly escalated. Not a day went by that I didn't taunt, torment and hurt him. I made his life a living nightmare - little did I know that I'd be the indirect cause of the hell he now endures ...

It shames me that the way that I treated him led him to seek whatever escape or respite from pain that he did. But the guilt I feel, knowing that I'm to blame for him taking on the Dark Mark and becoming a Deatheater, gnaws incessantly at me, although I'll never admit it. For I know he suffers greatly at Voldemort's hands, far more than he ever did at mine - and I wasn't lenient on him. I'd been merciless ... Relentless in my persecution of him ...

I've no idea what it is about him that draws out my vicious streak, the need to hurt and the compulsion to cause him pain ... And I don't understand why I loathe Voldemort intensely, when he harms him. Merlin ! It seems I'm a very possessive mutt who takes great offence when someone else dares touch my personal chew toy !

Even now - almost twenty years later - I relish our encounters. I take a perverse pride in cracking the walls of the icy fortress he's built around himself; that I'm capable of shattering his carefully crafted defences. It amuses me to see those deep, high walls crumble and turn to dust ... leaving him wary, vulnerable and unprotected. Although, I grudgingly admire the strength of his determination to ignore me. Hell ! I know he wishes more that anything that I cease to exist so that he may have some kind of peace. But I can't resist the urge, the burning need that I have to bait him relentlessly until his self-control's finally breached. Until he snaps and reaches breaking point - which to my satisfaction, he never fails to do so.

It frightens me that I'm only like this with him. I've no idea where this cruelty comes from ... How he's the only one able draw out my malicious, vindictive streak ... That my old school nemesis is the only person that can actually make me feel anything anymore ... That he's the only one who makes me feel truly alive ...

No wonder I go through firewhiskey and butterbeer like a hippogryff goes through water. That I'm rarely found fully sober. That I'm pitied by the Order members, who cloak their disappointment and disapproval under a thin veil of concern. He, meanwhile, says nothing and keeps his thoughts to himself as he tries desperately to ignore me. But damn it, I can't have him snubbing me - I won't allow it ! I need and want him to acknowledge me - he has to ... For the sake of my sanity, if nothing else. As long as I know he feels something for me, even if it's only pure hatred and rage, I can cope with my so-called life.

I know he walks a very fine line between life and death. He plays a dangerous game spying on Voldemort and his fellow Deatheaters on the Order's behalf. It's thanks to him alone that we've all survived up to now, yet I doubt that anyone's ever thanked him for it. That he risks his life for us all on a daily basis ...

He's treated with fear, mistrust, hatred and contempt by everyone as they conveniently choose to ignore the fact that he keeps putting his neck on the line to ensure our safety. Simply because he's a Deatheater and not worthy of trust or respect. I'm just as guilty as the others - hell, I'm probably much worse as I'm aware of what we're doing to him and I still choose to remain silent, although I do grudgingly respect his strength and courage. I'll be damned if I tell him though ...

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What I do know is - and I hate to admit it - if something happened to him, if he were killed ... aah, I would miss the arrogant, evil-minded, greasy git. He's a complete and utter bastard of the first order and given the opportunity, I know he wouldn't hesitate to kill me, especially considering how I've treated him over the years. After all, I almost got him killed, didn't I ?

We hate each other with an intense passion. When we fight, sparks fly and we forget about everyone and everything. Nothing else matters, except scoring points off each other. Seeing him break, and lose his icy composure. It gives me great pleasure to know I'm the only person who can truly piss him off and make him show his emotions. To see his pale skin delicately flushed in anger and those cold, dead, jet-black eyes come alive and burn with intense fury, transforming him from an ugly man into a strikingly attractive one ...

I'm aware that these are probably the ramblings of a drunken madman, but they're also the ravings of an honest one. I will miss him, because I need him. I depend on his sarcastic, snide remarks and his defensive taunts to keep me sane and alive. I can't lose him ... When it comes to it, he matters to me. I care what happens to him. I may not show it, but I do genuinely care about him ... They say hate is only the flip side to lov-

Oh, fuck , no! I've really screwed up this time, haven't I ? This must be what hell's like ... Shit ! I've only gone and fallen for bloody Snape ...

T.B.C.