Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: How could she kill him? He was, now I think about it, the obvious character to go though. Still.
Please review.
* * * * *
Ghosts.
That's what this house was full of.
Not real ghosts, that talked, and you could see.
Just ghosts that haunted me. Ghosts from the past.
And were they worse, or was it the captivity? 12 years in Azkaban, and now imprisoned again. Imprisoned in my old childhood home, by someone I trusted and respected.
Didn't mean I still liked him.
And what a childhood home it was. Not one I'd ever felt any connection too, unless, of course, you called hatred a connection.
Not a place I'd ever been happy in. And now, it just seemed so much worse. Memories surrounded me, constantly pushing for attention. Memories of yelling, screaming, crashing fights, lectures on the pureness of my blood, and what it meant in the eyes of my parents.
I'd never brought friends back. Ashamed, of my family, them and their conservative ways. James had understood, at least, and hadn't asked, not after the first few refusals. I suspected he knew why, or at least guessed - his parents had to have told him what kind of family I was cursed with.
But I was different. First Gryffindor. Most were Slytherins, some were Ravenclaws, and there was the very odd Hufflepuff, but I was the first Gryffindor. And didn't my parents hate me for it. Lecturing, sneering, bullying, they made my life a living hell when I went home for the summer. It was the best day of my life, the day I left.
And now Harry scarred even my school days. Bittersweet memories, of James and I, blighted by his pointing out of what I already knew: we were arrogant bullies. But then, we did have our reasons.
I was angry. So, so angry. Angry at my family, at life - and that anger, while I was at Hogwarts, was directed at Snape. Such a reminder of my family. Sneering at Muggle born, dabbling in the dark arts - he even resembled my father slightly. Not to mention the fact that our mothers were friends. Add that to his hatred of us, and I could not have cared less about how he felt.
Unless, of course, Remus made me. Or now, apparently, Harry could as well.
Harry, who wasn't James.
Harry, who I couldn't protect. Not even now.
Because, into those wounding flashbacks to my childhood, I could still remember the dementors, and everything they involved. I had thought that once I left, I'd be rid of the constant depression, but it didn't work like that. Life never did.
So again and again, in endless recurring dreams, James visited me, blaming me for my failures. As he should. Even now, what use was I.
But, no, I was lots of use. Don't forget Sirius, someone needs to keep this place more or less clean, for the people who do the real work.
And I'd found a chilling fact: just over 70% of people who have stayed in Azkaban for more than a year suffer from severe relapses, that can often lead to insanity.
Was I going mad?
Would I know if I was?
And would Remus realise? Because, even after all the time we had spent apart, I was lucky if I saw him twice a week. Never mind the fact he was supposed to be living here. Or the fact that we were supposed to be best friends, brothers in everything apart from blood.
But I guessed that had changed, like everything else in this world, so vastly different from before.
So I cleaned, and attended meetings to have my opinions ignored, and when I couldn't bear it any more, turned to the bottle.
And remembered Dumbledore's speech: what is right is not always what's easy, and let that keep me away from thinking death was the only way out.
A/N: How could she kill him? He was, now I think about it, the obvious character to go though. Still.
Please review.
* * * * *
Ghosts.
That's what this house was full of.
Not real ghosts, that talked, and you could see.
Just ghosts that haunted me. Ghosts from the past.
And were they worse, or was it the captivity? 12 years in Azkaban, and now imprisoned again. Imprisoned in my old childhood home, by someone I trusted and respected.
Didn't mean I still liked him.
And what a childhood home it was. Not one I'd ever felt any connection too, unless, of course, you called hatred a connection.
Not a place I'd ever been happy in. And now, it just seemed so much worse. Memories surrounded me, constantly pushing for attention. Memories of yelling, screaming, crashing fights, lectures on the pureness of my blood, and what it meant in the eyes of my parents.
I'd never brought friends back. Ashamed, of my family, them and their conservative ways. James had understood, at least, and hadn't asked, not after the first few refusals. I suspected he knew why, or at least guessed - his parents had to have told him what kind of family I was cursed with.
But I was different. First Gryffindor. Most were Slytherins, some were Ravenclaws, and there was the very odd Hufflepuff, but I was the first Gryffindor. And didn't my parents hate me for it. Lecturing, sneering, bullying, they made my life a living hell when I went home for the summer. It was the best day of my life, the day I left.
And now Harry scarred even my school days. Bittersweet memories, of James and I, blighted by his pointing out of what I already knew: we were arrogant bullies. But then, we did have our reasons.
I was angry. So, so angry. Angry at my family, at life - and that anger, while I was at Hogwarts, was directed at Snape. Such a reminder of my family. Sneering at Muggle born, dabbling in the dark arts - he even resembled my father slightly. Not to mention the fact that our mothers were friends. Add that to his hatred of us, and I could not have cared less about how he felt.
Unless, of course, Remus made me. Or now, apparently, Harry could as well.
Harry, who wasn't James.
Harry, who I couldn't protect. Not even now.
Because, into those wounding flashbacks to my childhood, I could still remember the dementors, and everything they involved. I had thought that once I left, I'd be rid of the constant depression, but it didn't work like that. Life never did.
So again and again, in endless recurring dreams, James visited me, blaming me for my failures. As he should. Even now, what use was I.
But, no, I was lots of use. Don't forget Sirius, someone needs to keep this place more or less clean, for the people who do the real work.
And I'd found a chilling fact: just over 70% of people who have stayed in Azkaban for more than a year suffer from severe relapses, that can often lead to insanity.
Was I going mad?
Would I know if I was?
And would Remus realise? Because, even after all the time we had spent apart, I was lucky if I saw him twice a week. Never mind the fact he was supposed to be living here. Or the fact that we were supposed to be best friends, brothers in everything apart from blood.
But I guessed that had changed, like everything else in this world, so vastly different from before.
So I cleaned, and attended meetings to have my opinions ignored, and when I couldn't bear it any more, turned to the bottle.
And remembered Dumbledore's speech: what is right is not always what's easy, and let that keep me away from thinking death was the only way out.
