Today I met Sirius again.
I was glad. Glad to see him cringe away from me, because he was dead and he wanted to see his friends. He didn't realise that blood is stronger, that he deserved a family escort for this.
Lucky they sent me. I mean, I don't think you can die once you're already dead, but I'm pretty sure that Mother would have tried.
And he comes through and he's yelling out Harry's name, and I just stand and laugh because he is dead and he can't go back for Harry.
Because he was dead but he could have come back for me.
He could have written a letter just to check I hadn't died or anything.
And slowly he turns around and he sees me there, and he looks so shocked, like he never did in life. But I suppose death can shock the system for a while. And he's all awkward and hands-in-pockets and 'oh so I suppose I'm dead.'
'I'm dead too Sirius. And you're clearly still a selfish bastard.'
He looks a little off-put. Not quite so arrogant and care-free because you lost, finally. You died.
'I died for you Sirius. And you clearly don't care.'
Because it's true. Here in this place where no one can die and no one can hurt…apart from the real hurt that digs down in your guts and wrenches at your heart…
I died for him. However much I lied to myself about how it was Voldemort's fault, and how I'd come to my senses. However much I hoped that it was me being a hero. However much I told myself that it was for good, because I knew what was right and what was wrong.
It was for him, who taught me right from wrong.
It was for him who laughed at me. It was for him who beat up the primary school kids when they laughed at me. It was for him who told Mother it was his fault, let me skulk behind him. It was for him who pushed me away, who left me behind. It was for him who never came back for me, who never answered my letters because I was a Slytherin and a Black.
It was to show him that I could do good things too.
Because he was my big brother and I wanted him to be proud of me.
Blood is strong. He was a bastard but he was my brother.
And he looks at me curiously, like he can see what I'm thinking. And I blurt it out, before he can run off to his big-boy friends and ignore me again. I tell him what I did, how I died and to what end. And it's bliss to watch his eyes widen in horror as the inferi drag me below the surface.
And he walks over to me, still shaky on his not-quite-feet. And he's looking at me, staring and staring because he never really saw that I was a Black too. I could be brave and daring and such a rebel. But no one loved me for it. Not even him.
We make up. We sit down and discuss things, discuss where it all went wrong. And he's dead, and I'm just his brother, so he drops the bravado and the arrogance and just sits, head to head, heart to heart, and we talk about life and death matters.
And we have hours and hours to talk, to understand, to realise.
That we're the two Black brothers, dead before our time. We're the heirs to the noblest, most ancient cause of all. Freedom.
Freedom, and how to go about it. Do you shove everyone away with fights and battles and passionate hugs and loyalty. Or do you hide in the shadows, playing your own game, because no one can touch you there.
I died for him. That was my choice. My little piece of freedom.