By: Sailoranime
Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me. I think I'd also like to disclaim this story, because I'm not sure why I wrote it.
Author's Notes: Okay, so this bunny has been hopping around my head for ages. I wrote half of it down on paper, but it never reached the computer stage. Now, I find myself wanting to finish it, and I know it's not likely that I will unless I type it up. Feel free to leave a review, in fact, I'll enjoy it. And feel free to visit my Livejournal too, because I do sometimes show people there that I'm not crazy. This is the fic I thought you might hate me for, Katie.
Summary: We've all read at least one of those fics were Sirius leaves Harry a letter, and I even used that myself to introduce Dwelling. Well, the idea behind this was what if Sirius left a letter, but it was one Harry was never supposed to find?
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Harry opened the last drawer of Sirius' dresser. He'd been at it for more than an hour, and while he'd found some pictures and a few other trinkets that had belonged to Sirius, he didn't quite appreciate them enough yet to make it worth the ache he felt inside himself.
Harry had arrived at Grimmauld Place only days before, just in time to see Lupin before the man went off on some sort of mission. On his way out the door, Lupin had pulled him aside and explained that he wanted Harry to go through Sirius' things and pick out anything that he felt he might like to keep. Even though Harry was completely against the idea of moving Sirius' things from their rightful place in the bedroom, he knew it was unreasonable to leave them there. Of course, he couldn't care less about being unreasonable.
He wasn't sure what would happen to Sirius' things, all he knew was that he wasn't about to let anybody throw them away. They weren't of any use to anyone, but he would make sure that they wouldn't be stashed in the attic, only to be forgotten and ignored until they began to rot. He, Harry, was Sirius' godson, after all, and Sirius had left him Grimmauld Place on the one condition that The Order would still be able to have it as its headquarters. He felt a kind of savage pleasure as he realized no one would be able to touch Sirius' thing without his, Harry's, permission. He almost wished someone would try to challenge it so he could tell them that Sirius had only specified that the The Order could use the house as long as they wished, but only that, so not even Dumbledore had any say about any other aspect of life at Number 12.
He went through everything carefully, not wanting to upset the specific order Sirius had left everything in. The last drawer was full of papers, and Harry knew right then that he wouldn't take much from that drawer. There were letters there, personal things that Harry would not touch. He dug a little deeper, just to make sure there wasn't anything else he could get from under the piles of papers.
His fingers made contact with a crumpled up piece of paper, and he pulled it out, curious as to what it was. He looked at it, and decided it must have been garbage that had made its way into the drawer. He made to throw it in the garbage bin, but something caught his eye. Written sloppily at the top of the paper was his own name. With a frown, he stretched out the piece of paper. He stood up and set the paper down on the dresser, doing his best to iron out the creases and wrinkles.
His stomach gave a funny little jolt as he realized it was a letter, and that it was addressed to himself. It had obviously been a letter that Sirius had never sent. He couldn't imagine why, however. It obviously wasn't that he had meant to send it and had never had the chance, because it had been crumpled up. More likely than not, it was an early draft of another letter.
He scanned the letter, only reading a few key words, when his eyes fell a particular sentence that made Harry feel sick. He began reading the letter from the beginning, the bad feeling in his stomach increasing with every word, until he felt he was about to explode.
Dear Harry,
I feel like a jerk of the worst kind for doing this to you. I know, somewhere in my mind, that I'm not doing anything, that you'll never even know these thoughts have crossed my mind. But that must be what makes it worse; that I know you're safe and happy (or at the very least safe, if not happy) and very far from here at Hogwarts, completely unaware of the slander your own godfather is raising against you.
I'm not drunk, Harry, I swear I'm not drunk. Even though I suspect I'll be on my second bottle of vodka in a little bit, I still have my wits about me. I thank God that Molly will never make good on her threat to tell you that I've been drinking more than I should. She calls me a drunk, but I'm not; she exaggerates. She always tells me, "think of Harry!", but I do think of you, and that's why I tend to drink sometimes. Because I think of you, and I think of James, and Lily, and my mother and father. Do you know what it was like living here. It was horrible, and now I'm back and I'm trapped again, just like I was back then. And even if I push all that away and ignore the spirit of Azkaban still in me, I'm still stuck dealing with you.
Maybe when I read this letter in the morning, I'll be able to tell myself it was the alcohol talking. But it's not, it's just giving me the courage to get all of this out and not think I'll be struck by lightning as soon as I put it down on paper. You've done nothing to me. And I know I don't hate you, but I can't get past this- this nightmare. I don't know what I expected. You're not James, and you're obviously not going to love me like he did. I expected so much, and now I feel like we're almost strangers.
But you'll never know that. No, I'll make sure you don't.
I'd never felt this hopeless before, even when you were in the Triwizard Tournament and I went to sleep every night worying about what my life would be like if something should happened to you. But I can't be sure if I'm finally seeing straight, or if I'm soaking up all the misery in this house and using it to twist my thoughts until they're barely reognizable. But even then, there would have to be an ounce of truth in it for me to feel this way. To feel that I'm not nearly as important to you as you are to me, and that everything is falling apart around me, and you don't care enough to figure it out.
I'm being reckless and unreasonable. Molly tells me so constantly, as does Remus and everyone else in this godforsaken house. Hell, I'm sure you were going to tell me same thing before you left back for Hogwarts after Christmas break. I was so happy for a while. I- everything was better. We didn't spend too much time together, but you were here. And it was like knowing that made Years ago, if someone had told me I would spend twelve years in Azkaban, I would have been reluctant to believe it. I didn't see it as something that was out of the question, because I knew just about everything was possible. The one thing I wouldn't have believed is that I'd escape for you, and that I'd eat rats and trash until I found you, and risk my life to make you believe me. But I did it all, and very willingly. Not so much for my revenge, because I didn't even get that in the end. For you. And even as you stood over me with your wand over my heart, all I could think about was how much you looked like your dad, and how much I'd love you if I had the chance. What I'd give to have you with me, and how I'd spoil you and make you everything James and Lily always told me I would. And you didn't do it. Even though you believed you had every right, you wouldn't kill me.
Even when you were busy with the Tournament, you still went down to visit me, even when you had no business doing so. And as embarassed as I was the first time I had to ask you for food, you made sure I never had to ask again. You always made sure I had something to eat. And I didn't care about the food, I could have gone without it most of the time, but it was the realization that you cared that made me happiest. I remember the first time you sent a food package. I watched the three owls approaching, and I remember panicking, thinking I might have been caught. They landed in front of me and I saw what they were carrying. That owl of yours looked ready to spoon-feed me. I remembered tearing into the bag, looking for a note. And when I found it, it struck me once again just how wonderful you were.
I never begrudged you anything I went through for you, but I knew that moment that I had probably never loved you more. And I've never forgotten. And even now as the guilt is tearing into me for saying all these things, I know you'd forgive me and even beat at yourself for being so incosiderate. And no mater how much I want to understand you have no obligations towards me, I can't believe that things should be this way. I-
And there, the letter ended. Harry swallowed hard, trying to figure out what to make of it. Had Sirius really felt that way? Had he felt that Harry didn't care for him? Had he felt that way up until his death; carried that burden up until the moment he died? Even with those thoughts, he'd still rushed off to save him. He, Harry, had caused so much trouble. So much mental anguish. He wasn't used to having people that cared about him.
He slammed the drawer shut and climbed on to the bed. He sat against the headboard and thought for a minute. Then he stuck the letter in his pocket and left the bedroom, the other photographs and trinkets left on the floor, forgotten. He'd taken enough.