Bear with me.. I have a creative thought. I decided to write a brief monologue of Harry in his room.
Disclaimer: Harry, Lily, James, Ron, Hermione, and Sirius belong to J.K. Rowling. There's two curse words, and they're not offensive.
He sat cross-legged in the middle of his room at Number 4 Privet Drive, staring up at the ceiling. No one knew his pain, no one understood his sorrow, no one saw his tears. No one felt the burden that Harry felt; he had let his family down, he had let Sirius down... He had let the whole wizarding world down, in a way. He closed his eyes, his head slowly drooping to hang from his shoulders limply. His posture slackened as he slumped down into a fetal position, his hands covering his face to hide his sorrow. From whom he was hiding, he wasn't sure. He didn't want to seem weak, though he felt that he already seemed that way--going to the Ministry had seemed to be the right thing to do. If only he had taken that damned occlumency serious! He looked back up from his hands to the picture book that had been laying open before him. Taking his glasses off to clean the tears from them, his vision blurred momentarily. Upon placing them back on his face, he opened the book to the picture of his parents with an infant form of himself. Their smiles faded as they saw his grief, and he didn't blame them: he most likely looked like hell. He surely felt it. He turned the page to see the picture with he and his friends, Ron and Hermione. They had sent owls to him quite often over the summer, though none of them had been opened. He already knew what they said: that they were sorry for his loss, it wasn't his fault, and that they're having a wonderful summer. His heart wrenched with a combination of sorrow, guilt, and resentment; he wished he could have a normal summer like all teenagers. He didn't even care if he were a wizard at the moment, he knew how to get along without it. He longed to have parents, siblings, friends, a normal life without Voldemort. Without enemies. Without..
Without death.
His body shuddered at the reminder as he sunk down into his previous position, holding his hands to his eyes to keep the tears in. He pushed hard to try to put them back in. He didn't want to cry anymore. He was sick of being sad. He wanted revenge for what was taken from him, what was rightfully his. He peered back up at the photo book and turned the page. His breath caught in his chest as a smiling Sirius returned his glance. Not sad or curious, like the other pictures had been. Happy. His stomach flopped as he was torn between grief and joy. He couldn't make Sirius come back, as hard as he tried, but as he looked at the still-smiling picture, he wondered if that mere image reflected his feelings beyond the physical world. His hopes jumped as he pulled the book closer, excited at the thought. Maybe he was happy? Of course he's happy, he thought to himself. Why wouldn't he be? He's with my parents, he's with his family members--at least, the ones that remained true to him. He shut the book rather quickly at the thought, suddenly wanting a change of subject. He was tired of thinking about it.
He stood up and looked back up at the ceiling, allowing his remaining tears to stream out of his eyes and across his temples. "Si--" He couldn't bring himself to say his name. He sighed. "Snuffles, I know you're there. I know you're hearing me, I know you're seeing me. I'm sorry that I let you and the whole world down. I'm so sorry; everything was my fault. I just don't know what I can do now, I don't want to be a murderer, but the prophecy said that one couldn't live while the other one was living. I don't want to die..
"Or do I? I don't know anymore.. I just want to see you, to talk to you and have you be able to talk to me back. I broke your mirror, S-Sirius.. I didn't mean to, but I missed you too much, and I tried to talk to you through it, but my mind was clouded with thoughts of you.. well, it still is.. and I threw it. I'm sorry, I let you down, I killed you. I tried to avenge your death, but I couldn't even perform a curse.. what's wrong with me?"
He asked the last sentence with a quiver in his voice. He looked back down and then to a mirror on the back of his door. He looked at himself--he was tall, lanky, and looked as though he hadn't eaten for days. More like weeks, he thought. His hair was unkempt, his clothes were wrinkled, his face was red and blotchy from crying. He frowned--as though he could look any more depressed--and sat down on his bed behind him. Almost immediately, he laid down, his head hitting his pillow. He took his glasses off and placed them on his nightstand, fresh tears pooling up to distort his already-bad vision. As he tried to blink them out, his eyelids felt heavier. His last blink stayed closed as he drifted off to sleep to dream about Sirius, as all of his dreams had been since his death.