Harry is found not guilty.

I look at Harry and think of how proud James would be of him. Harry is a good kid, better than the good parts combined of James, Remus, and I at any rate. He is smart, handsome, kind and great at Quidditch. He has a sense of humor. (Of course he does, he's James's little boy!) He makes me so proud; he gives me a will to live.

Harry looks so happy.

For a while, I revel in his happiness, giddily living through Harry's life. He will return to Hogwarts, eat to his hearts content, sleep in his magnificent four poster bed, love, laugh, live.

But when the warm glow of the firewhiskey begins to wear off, I begin to feel the darkness set back in.

I wish I were not found guilty. Hell, I wished they gave me a trial. Those fucking assholes.

And I don't even want to think it, but I know it's true: a tiny traitorous part of my heart wishes that he were found guilty. Then he would stay with me and I wouldn't be so fucking lonely.

Hell, I could teach him spells, teach him how to survive as a runaway. We would redo this entire fucking house so that every last scrap of the Moste Evile and Inbred House of Black is scrubbed out of it. We'd add an indoor Quidditch field, we'd feast on unhealthy food, we'd put in those marvelous baths that they have for prefects. I would make a garage to construct another improved flying motorbike and James-... Harry...I mean, Harry could make improvements to his broom. If I close my mind I can see it all, close enough to touch.

I look at Harry, our eyes meet, his green against my grey and the image shatters. He is laughing with Ron and Hermione, his best friends, and his eyes are green, not brown.

The party suddenly seems too loud.

I slink off into the darkness into my ice cold bed and cast a feeble Heating Charm.

Alone. I'm always so bloody alone. I rightly feel miserably for myself.

And then I'm not cold anymore. I'm burning hot with anger.

"I SPENT THE LAST THIRTEEN FUCKING YEARS ALONE," I yell at the walls. "MY BEST FRIEND IS DEAD. HE'S DEAD."

And then it hits me. James is dead. He's never coming back.

So I put a silencing charm on the door and scream as if there is no tomorrow.

"FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU!" I don't know who I am cursing at- my mom, Dumbledore, the Wizemgot which tried Harry, Peter Fucking Pettigrew, or Voldemort, the biggest fucker of them all- but it feels good to curse.

And then it is as if a switch is flipped and I am sobbing into my pillow, curled up in fetal position, rocking back and forth.

I don't know how long I stayed like that, but at some point I felt a hand rubbing my back and instead of holding a pillow I was holding a comfortable sturdy figure that smelled of parchment and chocolate.

Remus.

I rubbed my cheek against his ultra soft cardigan and he wiped my nose with a handkerchief.

"Are you alright, Sirius?" he asked.

"'M fine now," I said.

He gave a murmer of what sounded like disagreement and continued to rub my back.

"I don't know why I always act like I'm three years old with you," I said.

"I'm pretty sure you always act like you are three years old, Sirius. You run around, pick your nose, and cause mischief wherever you go."

I smile. Then sigh. "I mean I always behave like such a... such a baby. I've cried more with you in the past month than I have in my entire life."

"Crying is not a sign of weakness," came the calm soothing response.

"Yes, it is," I counter.

"No, it isn't," Remus snorts. "It's a way to express your feelings. It's good. It's cathartic. It's healthy to talk about and express your feelings."

I grunt.

"Oh, but Sirius is too manly to discuss his feelings," Remus gently mocks.

I snort.

"Now he's too manly to talk at all. He just communicates in grunts and snorts." Remus pokes my side and I squirm and laugh.

"It's hard to see Harry," I admit once our laughter has subsided.

"He does have a striking resemblance to James. It was hard for me too. When I first saw him."

"He looks as though James was cloned. Besides the eyes, which are purely Evans. But even so, it's just so ..." I trail off.

"You never had a chance to process James's death," says Remus.

"But you'd think I'd get over it after fifteen years, wouldn't you?"

"Emotional wounds heal slower than physical. Believe me. I've had enough experience with both to know." I look up and Remus looks tired again. My heart sinks. In my own self pity, I forget that I'm not the only one who bore the brunt of the damage in the war.

I am too cowardly to ask him about how he felt, how he feels, so I pull my self up and kiss him. I try to put my feelings and my questions into the kiss; I caress his face and hair with my fingers. I wish I had the courage to do this years and years ago.

I move down to his neck and kiss it. "I'm lonely sometimes," I mumble against his Adam's apple in a voice so quiet I don't think Remus hears.

"I'll be here, Sirius." I feel myself getting pulled back up to look at Remus. His eyes seem to glow

"Thank Merlin for that. I don't know how I survived without you."

"Are you being serious?"

I can't resist. I turn to him and look him dead in the eye. "I'm always Sirius."

Remus groans loudly. "I walked into that, didn't I."

I laugh. "Yup."

He smiles at me, and I touch his cheek. "But honestly, I don't know how I survived without you."

"You're stronger than you think, Sirius," said Remus.

We sit there in silence for a few moments. I breath in and out. Remus rubs my back in spirals.

"Want to plan an escape from Grimmauld Place?" Remus says, breaking the silence.

I smile. "I wouldn't be a Marauder if I said no."

Remus shifts so that his head rests on my chest. Merlin, he is beautiful.

Thank Merlin, I am not alone.

(Sorry I took so long to update! I got buried in work, but I hope to be back writing in the next month. Thank you for the reviews!)