"Sirius…Sirius no…Come back…SIRIUS!" Harry shouted in his sleep. He got up with a jolt. For a moment, he was relieved. It was just a nightmare.
Then he remembered.
Sirius, his godfather, his brother, his friend…his father. He was gone. Dead. And was never coming back. The tears threatened to run down his pallid face. Harry let them. He had nothing to lose. He had already lost everything that was precious to him. What did a few tears matter? He put on an act in front of Ron and Hermione. He didn't want them to see how broken he truly was. And in any case, they wouldn't understand. Ron and Hermione had grown up with a loving family. One that cherished them. Harry had only ever known the Dursleys. He had been burdened with loss long before anyone should. Sirius changed all of that. Yes, the Weasleys were wonderful but Mr and Mrs. Weasley weren't his parents. Sirius was his father's best friend and Harry's godfather. Even though they hadn't spent a lot of quality time together, Sirius was always there for him. He was the connection to James and Lily that Harry had been starved of his whole life. Losing him was terrible. The grief that tugged at Harry's heart and threatened to break it until it wept was too large to put into words. He cried himself to sleep every night. Fear kept him awake at night. Harry dreaded the night when Sirius would come in his dreams and blame Harry for his untimely death. His normally fun, brave, loving godfather would be replaced with a spiteful person similar to the Dursleys.
And it was all Harry's fault. No one had said it. Not Dumbledore, not Ron, not Hermione. But Harry knew it was. If he had learned Occulumency, Sirius would be alive. If he had not acted rashly, Sirius would be alive. If he had the sense not to trust Kreacher, Sirius would be alive. All fingers pointed to him. The Chosen One couldn't even choose to save his own godfather.
Harry sat there, on his too-small bed, crying. He didn't want to be the Chosen One. He didn't want to be the Boy who Lived. He didn't want to be the boy who fought Voldemort 4 times and lived. He just wanted to be Harry Potter, son of James and Lily, godson of Sirius, best friend of Ron and Hermione. He wanted his parents. He wanted Sirius. He punched his pillow in frustration as a sob wrenched itself out of him. He had to control himself. Harry didn't want the Dursleys to hear him crying. Hedwig hooted and he let her out of her cage. She flew down to his bed and looked at him with her beady, knowing eyes. Hedwig was his only friend here. She was the only one who would ever see how devastated he truly was. He reached his hand out to pat her and she nuzzled into it. Harry felt a smile tugging at his lips.
And when the sun rose, it rose to no sweeter sight than the boy with the scar curled up in bed with a snowy ow. If you looked closer, you would see the photo clenched in his hand. Upon further inspection you might see that the people were moving. And if you got close enough, you would see a woman with stunning green eyes and a man with messy hair embracing another devilishly handsome man holding a little baby. But that's only what you might see. If you looked close enough.
