Just a little drabble I've been poring over for ages. I've always wondered Sirius's thoughts following the argument at the dinner table in order of Phoenix when Molly was resisting "hurting" Harry any further with concrete information because she considers him a child.

Just a note though: I'm 100% not satisfied with this story but can't really pinpoint anything I really want to change so take a read and give him constructive criticism! Really not my best piece but *sighs*

Disclaimer: All characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

THE WORST KIND OF MONSTER

He's not your son.

Sirius Black stood at the window of his old bedroom, a sanctuary he had spent sixteen years of his life in, hiding from the other inhabitants of the grand mansion that had felt more like a prison to him in all the years he had lived in it. The walls that surrounded him were so plastered with posters and pictures that the silvery-grey silk of the wall could hardly be seen at all; large Gryffindor banners, posters of motorcycles and bikini-clad girls and, his favourite of all, a moving, laughing photograph of the Marauders, taken at their time in Hogwarts. Once, they had been talismans to aid him in bearing through the summer when he had been forced to return from Hogwarts – now, they only seemed to serve as a reminder for all that he had lost.

He stared out at the square in front of the house. Why his family had chosen a Muggle square to live in, he had no idea although it went some way to explaining why they had disdained of ever leaving the house. The houses that surrounded Grimmauld Palace were nowhere near as grand as the mansion but were also falling into disrepair; paint was peeling from the walls of many of the houses and several windows had been shattered, the streetlamps casting a pool of light into the rooms beyond which were thick with dust and devoid of any signs of life or even furniture.

Twenty-one years had taken its toll on this place, as it had on him. He still recalled, as a child, staring out at the square for hours on end, watching as Muggle families living in the surrounding houses carried out their day-to-day activities, oblivious that magic or magical folk existed – or that a wizarding family lived in that very square, despising their very existence and layered so thickly in enchantments and magic that none of them had ever laid eyes upon them. The square had been full of life then, the houses painted in fresh, bright colours, windows thrown open to allow the sunshine in, life booming from within the houses. Young Sirius had watched, almost longingly, as fathers kissed their wives and children goodbye in the early morning as they left for work, mothers combed the hair and adjusted the clothing of their children before sending them off to school, children ran out to the middle of the square every evening to play football and basketball, laughing and chattering in their high voices. He still remembered, exactly, the family across the square – a dark haired father, a dark haired mother and two dark-haired little boys. The similarities had been enough for him to pretend, at times, they were his family – how he had watched and wondered and wished as the father swung the boys onto his shoulders and the mother smothered them in hugs and kisses and the two boys raced each other across the square. But they were gone, as had the others in the surrounding houses. As had most things in his life.

He's not James, Sirius!

Sirius clenched his hands into fists at his side. When he had told Harry everything he had wanted to know about Voldemort at the dining table, he had thought he would feel … something. Relief, happiness, pride … anything. Instead, he felt as empty as he had since he had first stepped foot into the damn mansion that had been the setting for his nightmares since he had left it at the age of sixteen.

Sometimes, the way you talk about him, it's as though you think you've got your best friend back!

What's wrong with that?

What's wrong, Harry, is that you are not your father, however much you might look like him!

He stood stock still for a moment then lashed his fist at the window, ignoring the pain that flared upon contact. The glass shuddered but did not break.

Damn Molly Weasley. He couldn't get her words and their argument over the dining table out of his head. She had been so persistent … so determined to continue to baby Harry. To keep treating him like he was a child when he wasn't.

He's not your son.

He's as good as.

But he's still not your son, thought Sirius hollowly. Harry was James and Lily's son. He was their child right down from the way he looked to the way he smiled to the way he spoke. He was someone who bad things kept happening to but instead of sitting in a corner and weeping over it, he squared his shoulders and handled it. He was someone who even though his luck kept turning sour, he kept his cool and moved forwards. Like James. Like Lily.

Sirius was not a naturally calm person and he had very nearly lost it at the dining table earlier. If Remus had not stopped him, he might have done something he would have regretted but now, now, looking back at it, he wished he had.

Lily and James would never have been able to stand seeing their son treated like such a pampered little child. They had seen the real world. They had faced the worst of monsters, been burnt to their very soul but had walked out stronger than ever. They would never have tried to suffocate Harry under layers of blankets. Not when they knew what he was capable of.

It's not down to you to decide what's good for Harry!

But it is.

He was Harry's godfather. He had been and still was James's best friend. He had spent his fair amount of time lounging around and laughing with Lily, watching her back in Order missions, comforting her in her lowest of times when James was away on a highly dangerous Order mission and she had no one else to turn to. He had known and loved them both like they were parts of his soul. He knew what they would have wanted. How they would have raised Harry.

He was the closest thing to James and Lily Harry had because nobody else had known them any better.

Lily and James would have wanted their son to know exactly what he was facing so he wasn't caught off-guard in the moment. They would have wanted him to be taken seriously, as an adult, because he had faced way more than most adults twice his age.

The thing is, it's been rather difficult for you to look after him while you've been locked up in Azkaban, hasn't it?

Sirius felt the pain pierce like a dagger through his heart. It had been easier at the table when he had been too consumed by fury to consider the pure spite and implications behind that statement but standing in the darkened room of sixteen year old Sirius, in the aftermath of the argument, the lancing pain was twice as sharp. One of his greatest regrets … and one of his deepest shames.

For it was true. He had failed James and Lily utterly. Not just in playing a part in their deaths and being unable to save them but also winding up in Azkaban and being so consumed in his need to survive the Dementors and the pure agony that was the wizarding prison, that he had never stopped to think for a minute about Harry. His godson. The little boy who had liked to climb on his back in his Animagus form and ride on him through the supermarket, who had screamed for "Pafoo" (because at one, he didn't know how to pronounce "Padfoot") the moment Sirius stepped through the door, who had scribbled "Happy Birthday" cards for him at Christmas and "Merry Christmas" cards for him on James's birthday for mysterious reasons. The little boy who had needed him, needed his godfather, because he had had almost nobody else left in the world.

He had never even written to him. Not once. Those imprisoned were allowed to send and receive letters once in awhile but during his time there, he had been so preoccupied with his own misery that he had never even thought …

I'm sorry, Sirius cast the thought to the heavens, in the hopes that James and Lily, watching from above could hear. I'm sorry. I should have tried – tried harder.

He turned from the window, feeling sick.

He should have died at Azkaban, really. He was useless here. He was a convicted murderer who had a ten thousand Galleon price on his head. He wasn't even allowed out of the house. He couldn't do anything.

You need to move on, Sirius, Remus's voice echoed in his head. They're dead. Nothing will bring them back. You're spending too much time immersed in the past, beating yourself up over something out of your control …

But Remus would never understand. He had his own demons to fight but he would never understand the burden Sirius carried every day, every time he saw Harry. Would never understand the knot of self hatred and wistfulness and guilt Sirius carried around with him.

Because Molly, as it turned out, was right after all.

Sometimes, the way you talk about him, it's as though you think you've got your best friend back!

When Sirius had first walked back into Harry's life, he had thought Harry was exactly like James, both in character and looks. The boy had broken so many school rules in that one year – sneaking out of the castle when rules for his own safety were being implemented; it was such a James thing. Saving Wormtail to prevent Sirius and Remus from having it on their consciences of being murderers even though that sneaking rat – pun intended – was the very reason he had no parents, even stealing the Hippogriff to rescue Sirius and save Buckbeak from death. It was so James. Sirius had had bigger things to worry about then but he remembered, distinctly, feeling thrilled. Because, for a few moments, for a few glorious moments, he had felt like he had gotten James back. He had gotten his best friend back.

In Harry's fourth year, he had been too worried about the possibility of his godson walking himself into serious trouble to worry much about whether he was James or not. The boy had frustrated him so much with his blasé attitude towards his own safety, his stubbornness and most of all, his overall naivety which made him trust everyone – Sirius had nearly had a heart attack when he discovered that Harry had cheerfully gone off alone in the Forbidden Forest with Viktor Krum, of all people – not only a Durmstrang student – a school infamous for its syllabus and practice of Dark Arts – but also the school champion under the wing of Karkaroff, an ex-Death Eater.

But he had had to admit – underneath all the fear and anger and sickening worry, he had felt a pang of nostalgia. For it was such a James thing, to be dismissive of the possibility of danger, to want to be free to do as he pleased and make his own decisions without being told what to do. There had been no controlling James and then, no controlling Harry and he had felt it – a distinct note of hope and belonging.

It had faded because now, Sirius knew, though a small part of him resisted the fact, tried to cling onto the past, that Harry was not James. He had realized it when he had seen Harry return from the graveyard, escaped once more from Voldemort, seen it in the way he held himself and handled the situation in the aftermath. Harry was not his best friend. Harry was his godson. Harry was a young kid who needed his godfather to be there for him, to push him, to guide him. And as sickening as it sounded, Sirius was tired of it.

He was tired of being a godfather. He was tired of trying to teach someone how to stay safe when he didn't even know how to do it himself. Dumbledore had ordered him to keep Harry in check for the whole summer and he had tried but he had been able to taste his own frustration in doing so.

He didn't want to be responsible for someone. He was tired of playing guardian. He was sick of being expected to decide what was best for another human being.

He wanted his best friend back. He wanted James back. He wanted James to have his back for him in the darkest of nights when they were on his motorcycle flying over Muggle houses on the lookout for Death Eaters. He wanted to have to bite his fist to stifle his laughter over stupid things at the back of a warehouse with James on Order duty, trying not to attract the attention of any passer-bys. He wanted to hex anybody that pissed him off, a grinning James at his side, without worrying whether it was a responsible image to be projecting. He wanted to kick back, watch James play Quidditch and be allowed to shrug if his best friend crashed into another player and flippantly say, "He's not going to die, not with a face like that – even ghosts have better tastes" and know that James was going to be alright.

And if that didn't make him the worst kind of monster, he didn't know what would.

So what did you guys think? Please review and I'll see you in my next story!

xx