AN: New story in which I try to follow Sirius's last weeks of life, in 12 Grimmauld Place. While I may spin off into the realms of plot bunnies here and there, I want to make this as faithful to our beloved bookSirius as possible and show his side of events.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, except the muggle on the roof.

September 2nd 1995

I'm not a diary person, but Remus thought this might help me "take my mind off things", though I don't see how writing these "things" down is going to expunge them. He's angry with me because of how drunk I got last night – it wouldn't have been obvious to a passer-by, but I can see the faint twitch at the side of his mouth that you don't notice until about the tenth year of knowing him – he ended up helping me stagger to bed while I cried on his shoulder, not my finest moment. So, I will show willing. Generally I try not to drink when I'm in the pits, but the frustration is mounting more and more in this bloody house. And now Harry has left for Hogwarts.

I know I should be pleased: Hogwarts is a beautiful, thrilling and above all, safe place for him to be, unlike here. I try to picture him in Honeydukes, round the common room fire, seeing his friends, playing Quiddich, and tell myself over and over: it's for the best. But loneliness is selfish, my loneliness tries to make grabs for him, is greedy to have him here making this hellhole bearable for me.

The house is still a free-range Weasley farm. They're everywhere! Last night Molly came in after her watch-out duty and sat with me in the kitchen. It was not as tense as it has been over the past week or two, I think for once we agreed about the kids: we missed them. There was also an unsaid note of fear in the air – Voldermort. Will Hogwarts always be safe?

September 5th

Fuck you, Kreacher.

I so desperately want a mission, or a drink, or a friend to talk to, I've done nothing today but paint the bedrooms on the third floor for ungrateful Order members who've been out doing useful things. Is it paranoia on my part, or are they ceasing to see me? It seems like their eyes pass over me a little too quickly, as though I was part of the furniture, a servant. Maybe I should paint myself into the walls and wait to rot with the building.

Kreacher sulks for days on end, then jumps out at me to wail about his servitude and devotion to this Noble and Most Ancient House. Can't wait to mount his head on the wall.

September 6th

Went up to the attic rooms tonight to clear out a suspected poltergeist and got an almost deadly shock when I saw James sprawled across the floor, with his eyes and mouth gaping emptily. I heard myself scream – the room distorted with my tears and though I faltered back, I forced myself to walk towards the body. As I did the whole cold horror that gripped me took another jolt, as I realised it was not James at all, but Harry. Harry, orphaned, hounded, traumatised, and now dead.

With a good deal of weeping and fumbling I managed to say "Ridikulus" and get the body to wink up at me. Bloody boggart. Why are they here, in my house? How did they get in, how did they know the house was abandoned? Did they come one by one or as a party?

Once I'd driven the damn thing out (in a locked chest), I sat among the ruins of my family and looked up into the skylight. My namesake was twinkling gently, unlike the great fireball it must actually be. The same as me, I suppose. Made to fit into a tiny frame, like a cell… Don't, Sirius. Don't feel sorry for yourself, that way lies ruin.

Where I was going with this was to say I decided to take a running jump at the beams on the ceiling, like I did as a kid, and sling myself up to the top window of the house. I was glad to find it still easy enough. From the pane, I could smell the cold night air, the fresh smell after rainfall, and freedom. Merlin, I could not restrain myself. I knew it was a matter of my very life and soul, but what a price for my sanity! I pushed the window open and stepped out on to the tiny balcony, that overlooks the backwaters of London. My beautiful city. What wonders it held when I was younger, when it was all my oyster. Almost immediately that I stepped out, I felt a thud of shock in my innards. Staring back at me, from the balcony of number 13 was a Muggle. She was older than me, perhaps Molly's age, and had the indefinable air of sleek wealth in her clothes and glossy brown hair.

My first thought was that she would recognise me from the Wanted posters, but I was virtually unrecognisable from then. After a surprised pause, she greeted me and started on about the weather. I was too puzzled to say much – why, HOW could she see the house all of a sudden? She said her name was something Muggleish: Jane or Julie or Janet or something, and I decided not to give her my rather distinctive name, and so smiled awkwardly, and went in.

What a day!

It just occurred to me today, Harry is probably going to make Quiddich Captain next year. No matter how dim my chances of acquittal seem, I still find myself imagining the daily activities of being a father, and now a new fantasy has been added to my list: seeing Harry's face light up when he gets the same letter as James – when the badge falls out. Seeing him in his first Captained game. Remus tells me Harry has never lost a match. I miss having the lad about the place.