He is dead. Sirius Black is gone, fallen through the veil, his life snuffed out, just like that.
Black.
That should have been my name. Black was my color, after all, from the time I was born.
Black – the color of the smoke billowing from the factory chimneys. The color of the soot that covered my bedroom window, blocking out most of the light. The color around my mother's eye when the bastard had once again had too much to drink.
Black – the color of my wand, deep ebony. The color of the flies lying lifelessly on the ground, after I practiced the killing curse. The color of the Mark, burning black when I am summoned to His side.
Black – the color of my hair, the color of my eyes, the color of my robes. Some would say, the color of my heart.
He was the Prince.
Born the spoiled brat of a pureblooded clan. Pride of his parents. Until he got sorted into the wrong House and started getting the wrong attitude and they disowned him.
But did that stop him? No. He just became the prince of Gryffindor. Glamorous, popular, handsome, talk of the Common Room. Got the girl every time.
Even his name was that of a star.
He was a Black. I am a Prince. It should have been vice versa, I thought.
Until he started living up to his name.
A black cell in Azkaban, with Dementors eating black holes into his mind.
I wasn't sorry when I found out. Not even when much later I found out that he hadn't committed the crime for which he was punished. He still deserved it. I wasn't quite as black before I met him, before he charred me, before he made my life hell for endless years.
And now he is gone. And I don't care. At least he got to be Prince for a while. Me, I will always be Black.
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