It's not exactly easy to explain to someone that you're not quite all there. That, in reality, you're pretty sure you've always been a few ounces short of a pint, but now, more so, than ever.
It was no matter. Remus probably would have rubbed him off anyway. Make a joke of it. "Padfoot, you've always been a little off." Something of that nature. Remus never really understood him like James had.
It's your fault.
It became easier, over time, for Sirius to pretend that everything was all right. After all, it wasn't as if he could say that it wasn't.
Life on the run was simpler. In a cave with rats and bats, fighting off the cold, and hoping that maybe he just might freeze to death during the night. Poor Sirius, he made it through Azkaban, but couldn't brave the elements. It would have been far simpler if he'd just died before he'd ever gotten the chance to meet Harry, but life had never been that simple.
Harry. Not James. Not James. Harry. NOT JAMES!
No one seemed to understand. Sometimes, he was sure he didn't either.
Nothing really made sense in his head, like his mind was playing tricks. One day he could have sworn he saw a young boy with black hair and bright blue eyes running down the stairwell, grinning and laughing, but there was no such boy in that house anymore.
He reminded himself all the time. Behave. Be quiet. Don't breathe a word of it to anyone.
Sirius never had been a very good listener.
"Remus." He'd come to his old friend one day, sure that his mind was no longer his own. "I don't feel like myself. It's not just the moods or the dreams anymore."
The werewolf had cocked his head, his eyes squinted. "What do you mean?"
He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was dry and his words painful.
I see Regulus. I see James. Lily screams at me for killing her and abandoning her son. There is nothing left for me.
He shook his head. "It's probably just this house, is all. It gets to me sometimes."
Remus had nodded slowly. "I'm sure everything will be fine, old friend. Hopefully we can get everything straightened out after this war ends."
I hate you. I hate myself. And there is nothing in this world that would make everything fine again.
Christmas came and went. For a brief second, he felt human again and not like a wraith. For the first time in fourteen years he sang.
The Granger girl knew more than she let on. He knew what he was in her eyes. In Molly's eyes. He wished that Harry would look at him through theirs instead of his own compassionate ones.
Perhaps then the boy would realize the truth.
Murderer. Failure. My fault. Why don't you hate me too?
He was twenty-one years old when he was locked away from the world. He wished everyone would stop expecting him to be thirty-six instead.
He was supposed to be responsible and well-mannered. He fidgeted in his seat at the Order meetings.
"Stand up straight!" his mother had commanded. He obeyed, pushing himself up to his full height and squaring his shoulders.
"I swear," she muttered as she moved to fix his hair, pushing it back into place and out of his face. "Why is it that every single thing about you, down to your very hair strands, does the exact opposite of what's expected of it?"
He'd retorted with something petty, along the lines of "Because it displeases you and that's all I will be good for in your eyes."
Maybe Walburga had loved him once.
James had loved him once. Of that, he was sure. Or he had been, until everything inside had twisted itself.
No one loves a murderer. No one loves a traitor. I DIDN'T BETRAY JAMES!
… But didn't you?
"We're brothers, Sirius."
James had been the only good thing about that day. It seemed as if the event should have taken place at night or during a storm. Something that would have signified the loss of love between him and his family. Instead, the sun had been high in the sky without a cloud in sight as he'd slammed the door to Number 12 Grimmauld Place for what, he had hoped, was the last time.
James was outside the Potter home, flying his new racing broom. Good for fast flying, but not good for quidditch.
We're brothers, Sirius. We're brothers.
Maybe he should have walked away that day. He should have turned around and went straight for the Leaky Cauldron. Sirius would have been seventeen soon and his Uncle Alphard had left him a sizeable inheritance to live off.
He hadn't. He kept walking until James was off his broom and in his arms, hugging him tighter than anyone ever had in his whole life.
He should have saved him. He should have walked away.
Sirius had never been very good at walking away.
"Please, Padfoot," James implored, his hazel eyes large, and beseeching. "Say you'll do it. There is no one else that I trust with the safety of my family."
Sirius had shaken his head. "It's too obvious, Prongs. I can't take that risk. But I do have a plan…"
I have a plan. Use Peter. Peter. Peter. Peter. Use Peter. Why the fuck hadn't it been me?
The Veil had started whispering to him the moment Sirius had stepped onto that dais
He felt no fear when battling Bellatrix, only a certain sense of foreshadowing.
Harry's screams echoed in his ears. Couldn't he make him understand? It was better this way. He would see in time.
It's okay, Harry. It's okay.
One thing Sirius had never counted on was a pair of outstretched arms to catch him on the other side. It would have made no sense for James to help his killer.