He was right and they were wrong.
Sirius wasn't sure how many times he'd had to convince himself of that.
He didn't know how many jokes he'd cracked to when he was young, merely to divert attention so that he didn't have to say it.
He didn't know how many bottles of firewhisky he downed as a teenager just to take away the guilt of running away from everything he ever knew.
He didn't know how many times he transformed or paced or screamed in confinement because it seemed to ease the agony of his lie, at least for a short while.
He didn't know how many times he blindly cursed himself in the years after, because he felt utterly useless and incomplete, something he never was able to stand.
Time was a blur, and illusion, a lie. And for that reason, Sirius Black didn't know a lot of things.
But he knew that he was right and they were wrong. And that was all that mattered in the end.
My first try at anything Harry Potter. A drabble. It was written with intentions of the 'they' being Sirius' family, but I can think of many other variables. Feedback would be much appreciated. Thanks for reading.