People believe that true love, the kind that causes you ecstasy and misery, joy and grief, comes from sex. If you haven't shagged them, than it can't be there. Maybe if you've kissed you can manage, especially if you were forbidden to kiss. But a relationship built on no sexual gestures or desires whatsoever? It doesn't happen. And if they aren't part of your family, you can forget about even crying when they die, especially if you're a male. They didn't matter. They weren't a part of you, as they say. Because only sex or blood makes you worthy of being a part of each other. Only those things can cause you to want to rip your own head off to ease the pain of losing them. Only those things can make you want to spend every moment with them. That's what stories tell you. It happens to be a complete and utter lie.

I had everything I wanted. Money, a house, friends, a cause to live for. But there was one thing, one person, who meant more to me than anyone else in the world. He was my best friend. No, he was more than that. He was partner, my twin, and, in my mind, my brother. No blood bound us together, but we felt an inexplicable bond with each other from nearly the first time we met.

And people knew. James Potter and Sirius Black. The infamous duo. Oh, we had others join us from time to time. Remus was always a welcome third member. In fact, I loved him as well. But not like I loved James. Nobody ever came close to him.

It sounds stupid, I know. But that's what I was saying before. You say you love someone, and people automatically think: sex or family. James was neither, but, God, did I love him.

My thoughts aren't as clear as they used to be. Here, nothing is clear. It's hard to tell day from night, summer from winter, sane from mad. Still, my mind is clearer than most of the others here. Clear enough to know that I am not supposed to be here. Clear enough to remember what happened to him and how it was, and wasn't, my fault.

…..

I should have kept my mouth shut. But then, I was never any good at that. Too clever for my own good, or anyone else's. I really thought I had things figured out. It all made sense, the pieces fit together, and I was confident.

Remus had been gone for weeks. No one really knew what he was doing. Oh, he'd show up for meetings, and he was always there for duty and whatnot. He was as kind and helpful as always. But he wasn't around like he used to be. James was happier than I'd seen him since his mother passed away. Lily had given birth to Harry, and things couldn't have been going better for the Potters. Peter and I were lucky to know them, and we basked in their happiness. So, naturally, I was suspicious that Remus, who we'd been so close to at school, didn't do the same. It was natural to be alert, to not trust him. Unfortunately, it wasn't right.

People were dying and disappearing left and right. You never knew, after leaving a meeting, who would live for another. No one was safe. Though we all trusted each other, it was at an arms distance. Nobody could come too close, because even if their intentions were good, if Voldemort got a hold of them, no information was sacred.

That is why, when the Potters needed a Secret Keeper, there were only two obvious choices. Dumbledore offered, and looking back, he would have been the best. Voldemort was scared of the man, and rightly so. He couldn't have touched the Potters if Dumbledore didn't want him to.

But James wanted me to do it. I won't deny, even now, that I was eager. I felt sure that, even if Voldemort caught me, he wouldn't be able to pry their location from me. Besides, I wasn't about to get caught.

There was a part of me, however, that knew such things were out of my control. If he wanted me, he could find me. And once I had been tortured long enough, who knew what I would say? Such things happened frequently in those times. So I decided I could trick Voldemort. I would choose someone no one would ever suspect, but someone who was just as loyal to James and Lily as me. Peter Pettigrew. Slow, silly, clumsy, excitable Peter. He worshipped James, and there was no one better at keeping out of harm's way. Most importantly, Voldemort would never think of him.

I told James the plan, and he agreed, as did Peter. We didn't tell Remus. Of all the things I did wrong, this is the one that causes me more pain than anything else. I couldn't have known what Peter would do. But I did see the pain and bewilderment on Remus's face when, every time he saw me, I made some excuse not to stay and talk. Now, it seems unspeakably cruel and foolish. At the time, however, I thought I was perfectly justified in isolating the man. And now, though James and Lily, wherever they have gone, are at peace, Remus is alone and in pain, and it is my fault. But I am getting ahead of myself.

I was told that they had performed the spell, and everything had gone well. Peter went into hiding, and we had arranged for me to check on him periodically so that, if he was captured, I might find out and be able to warn the Potters before disaster struck. We figured we had thought of everything. We were so clever, fooling the greatest Dark wizard of all time. But we knew nothing of what was to come.

That Halloween night, I was supposed to check on Peter. I thought nothing of it. I assumed he'd be at home, safe and sound, and we'd have a talk about Quidditch or something equally unimportant. But when I got there, he was nowhere to be found. I knocked. I called out his name. No response. Finally, I broke down the door, still refusing to believe anything was wrong. He was probably just asleep.

The house was undisturbed, nothing out of place. I ran upstairs, but his room was as empty as all the others in the house. Clearly he was no longer there. Now I felt my heart race. Where was he? He wouldn't have just left. But it didn't seem that he'd been attacked. Something was wrong. Deep down, I think I knew, even then, what had happened, what he had done, but I told myself that going to see James was just a precaution. Surely nothing had happened. Despite my shaking hands and pounding heart, I tried to convince myself that nothing could possibly be wrong.

When I reached their house, I immediately knew that something dreadful had indeed happened. The house was destroyed. Fire was still coming out of it, though some people were trying to put it out. My stomach clenched, but still, my mind came up with reasons not to panic. Even if they had been attacked, that didn't necessarily mean…no, there was no reason to think that at all. For a few moments more, I was allowed that sweet state of mind that is denial. I willed myself to move forward, and there, lying outside, just pulled from the burning house, were two bodies.

I couldn't move. I couldn't think. This wasn't happening, it just wasn't possible. The world would stop if it had really happened. The people around me still shouted and moved, and surely such things couldn't happen if he was...

But there was no doubt about it. It was him, his glasses still on his face, his hair messed up as usual, and oh God, his eyes were open and blank and he was gone. I'd seen death before, many times. Never had it hit me like this. How could someone so filled with life and love just be gone? He was so young, he hadn't lived. He had a family…and there was Lily too. Her eyes were closed, her red hair so bright I reached out and touched it, half hoping she'd wake up, shake James awake, slap him for being such a lazy prat, and everything would be all right again.

But such things don't happen. In fairy tales, perhaps. Not in real life. In real life, the people you love stay dead forever, and you can hope to see them again when you die, but that's all it is. Hope. And at that moment, I can't say I had any of it. In that moment, I thought James was lost to me for eternity. Even if his soul was wandering about somewhere, who was to say that I would be able to find it? Then the truly horrible thought, the one that poisons my mind even now, hit me. What if his soul, when the time came, hid from me? What if he hated me for what I had done? Because it was my fault this had happened. I had done this to the person I loved most in the world, and nothing could ever change that. Two people were dead because of me, and who knew what had happened to Harry-

Harry. Fear rushed through me as I looked around frantically. Surely he couldn't be dead too, or else he'd be here, with them. But then, how could he have survived when they didn't? Either way, I had to find out, and it only took a few minutes of mindless wandering to find him. Or rather, to find Hagrid, who was holding the baby clumsily in his giant arms. The child was wailing and scared, but he was alive, and that small comfort kept me from completely falling to the ground when Hagrid looked at me with tears in his eyes. I turned away and shook my head. There was nothing either of us could say that would make any difference. They were dead, and that was that.

Hagrid was saying something, and I couldn't understand, and I didn't want to, because what difference did it make, really? Saying everything would be all right, or they were in a better place…none of that mattered to me. He didn't know those things, and I didn't know those things, and how could they be in a better place when right here was where they should have been? With their son, their baby…Remus…me. What about the places we were in now? How could anything possibly ever be all right?

And then he handed me Harry. I hardly knew what was happening until he was in my arms, sobbing violently. He looked so like James. There was a cut on his forehead, and though I knew such a mark could only have been made by Dark Magic, I was too overwhelmed to question it. He was alive, and at the moment, that was all I needed to know. I smoothed his hair, and he looked up at me for a moment before burying his face in my chest and continuing to howl. His tiny fists grabbed at my robes, and I whispered something to him, I don't know what. The same nonsense that Hagrid had been telling me, no doubt. Perhaps it isn't nonsense after all, and, as Remus told me many times, I'm simply to cynical to appreciate its truth. After a while, Harry relaxed, and as I rubbed his back, I knew what I needed to do. It was my responsibility, after all.

"I'll take him from here, Hagrid. I'm his godfather, I ought to take care of him."

He protested. Dumbledore wanted him to go to his aunt's, he said. I argued for a bit, but something else distracted me. Harry had somewhere to go. Nothing could be done for James and Lily. Peter…I had to find him. He would pay for this. If I was the last thing I did, I would make sure that he paid for what he had done.

I let Harry go with Hagrid, offering him my motorbike. I didn't need it anymore. It was too noticeable, and Peter, the sneaking little bastard, would see it coming easily. I left soon after Hagrid took off, thinking of places he might be, and how on earth I could track him.

It turned out to be easy enough. He was sitting in a pub filled with wizards celebrating the defeat of Voldemort. For a spineless coward, he had a lot of nerve. It made me laugh. The fool had inadvertently made himself enemies on both sides. The Death Eaters would be after his blood just as much as me. He was only safe in the presence of people who didn't know he was a parasite out for himself.

He didn't see me at first, which was fine with me. I didn't want to create a scene. There was no reason to involve so many others in something that only involved us. However, the nervous man couldn't keep his eyes from roaming the room, and they eventually landed on me. I didn't move until he did. He excused himself and exited the pub, and I followed him out.

"How much longer did you think you could keep your little game up? Did you think I wouldn't find out? If I had it my way, everyone would know, right now, what you've done, and you'd be wriggling on the floor like the worm you are! How can you even show your face here, after what you did?"

I didn't say it. He did. In front of a whole street of Muggles, who now were staring in shock at the scene, he accused me of his own crime. This wasn't supposed to be how it happened. I opened my mouth, but he continued, his face red, his body shaking. I knew he was terrified out of his mind, but to the people around us, he must have appeared the poster child for righteous anger.

"Lily and James, Sirius! How could you? How could you betray your best friends?"

He was crying. I didn't know what to do. I had expect him to cower and grovel, and for me to be in complete control. But I had underestimated him. He knew what to do, and he did it all without shame. He sobbed and shouted, and I was too terrified to do anything about it. Then he said something that made every part of me scream in guilt and fury,

"They're dead, Sirius! And you did that, you did it!"

How dare he? If there was anyone more to blame than me, it was him. I drew my wand, but he was prepared for that. His wand was behind his back and ready before mine had left my pocket. The street blew up around us, and he was gone. I saw the rat scurry into the sewers, and heard the people screaming in pain and fear. I knew that I would be blamed for this, and that he would walk free. I didn't care anymore. His finger was there, cut off so that everyone would think I had killed him. Clever. God, I was a fool for thinking I understood anything. Nothing made sense, and why should it? Why should it make sense to someone who couldn't even see a rat when he was right in front of him?

I laughed, because nothing was funny anymore. It wasn't worth saving the laughter for something else, because there was nothing else. James was gone, Peter was gone, and I was gone. Dead, running, and screwed. Life wasn't supposed to be like this, but it was, and how could you not laugh at such a complete and utter disaster? If I didn't laugh, I'd lose my mind. Perhaps it was already gone. But really, what did it matter anymore?

I didn't protest when the Ministry wizards came to take me away. I didn't say anything to any of the men who came to question me. They thought I was guilty of blowing up the street, and I knew I was guilty of killing my best friend, so what did it matter what exactly I was guilty of? Did it matter if I killed thirteen people, or just two? I don't think so.

When the dementors first came, I passed out. When I woke up, I was in a cell, and it wasn't until then that I realized that there was something left in me after all. I actually felt saner there than I had in the streets. Because the dementors were trying to take something from me, which meant I still had something to take, something I could fight for. I've done a good job of it. I am still me. This is not always a comfort; in fact, many times it brings me grief and disgust. I've done so much wrong, and I may never be given the chance to right it.

There is one thing I know, however. As long as I am me, I can still think. I can still hope. That is humanity's only defense against the darkness, and I won't be giving it up anytime soon. Maybe someday, it will be enough to get me out of this place. It's only a matter of waiting out the storm.