Hello. So this will be my first story on this account (the other account i will not tell you). This will be Remus/Sirius. I guess this story will be a display of my emotions and inner turmoil - so expect angst. ^_^

Feedback would be good, no?

Prologue

"I don't know... No. I can't. It's too hard – what's the point? We're all going to die anyway, I don't see why I have to try. I know, I know, but I don't feel like I can do anything any more – not the way I used to. My life is falling to pieces around my feet, I'm trying the pick up the shards, but I'm only getting stabbed. What's wrong with me?"

I scrunched the piece of parchment up in my fist, trying somehow to destroy whatever I could. The paper fell from my fist and landed on the oak desk. I intensely started at the ball of paper. I don't know why, but I felt I could relate the piece of paper. It was scrunched up, looking cracked and broken. I'm cracked and broken. Although it was cracked and broken and horrible, it was still the one piece of paper, just in a different form. I'm still here, still pulling through. But if you try to smooth out the paper, you'll see the lines forever. Like scars. Like my scars.

The ball of paper was literally like my life. It was so easy to compare, but the feeling of knowing was making me sick.

A clucking noise pulled me from my musings. Professor McGonagall was leering over me, her arms folded. She twirled a black quill around her fingers in annoyance – she was waiting for me to pay attention. "Sirius Black," she croaked, her voice sounding harsh in the too-quiet room. "Can you tell me the answer to the question I just asked?"

"Uh... Two?"

She raised a thin eyebrow at me, and clucked once more. "Detention."

I groaned. I let my head hit the table.

"The correct answer," she called to the rest of the class, "was Sir Barnabas Pigmy, a man well known for his signature transfiguration..."

Her words faded out of my mind, and I was once again not paying attention, not caring about transfiguration and not caring about life in general.

To entertain myself, I decided to drop my quill and count how times it bounced, from different heights. I could feel Professor McGonagall's sharp glare piercing my back, but at that time I couldn't muster up the fucks to give.

The bell rang, so I shoved my parchment into my bag, throwing my quill in there and got ready to leave. The class had already left by the time I was packed up, they were at lunch already. I quickly remembered my little ball of paper, and put that into my pocket before McGonagall could question it.

The woman herself appeared before me, once again her arms crossed and her eyebrow raised. "Mr Black, I've been worrying about you..." she let her strict look go, and placed a hand on my shoulder, looking as if she was genuinely concerned. "Your grades have dropped. Your work is going downhill, and... and..."

"Yes?" I whispered.

"You look so sad."

I couldn't think of a response, so I said nothing, swung my bag over my shoulder and swiftly left the room. Before I was out the door, I looked back. I wished I hadn't. McGonagall was looking at me with so much sadness, and she was biting her lip.

I couldn't deal with it. The thought of people worrying about me, thinking about me, when they could be doing so much better. I'm a waste of time, a waste of space and people are just going to get hurt.