Two storms raged. As much as the lightning and thunder petrified most, the
storm within Sirius Black was clearly the more dangerous of the two. His
black hair was wild again, he had stubble on his chin, his eyes flashed
dangerously when he spoke nowadays, and with good reason. He had finally
been acquitted, his name cleared, yet victory meant nothing. "NOTHING!"
Sirius screamed into the empty air. The air was hollow, empty, drained of
life, just like Harry's body. He threw a chair into the wall, bursting a
nice hole in his bedroom wall. Outside, the thunder roared.
He had been the first one to the Dursleys'. It had been he who had burst open the cupboard under the staircase, it had been he who bore the battered body out the front door, tears streaming down his face. He had failed in every way. He had failed James, he had failed Lily, he had failed Harry. There was nothing left, no one left. Of the old companions, no one remained. James and Lily were gone, their son newly dead as well. Remus was in hiding, his condition making association with the outside world more difficult with each passing month. Peter had betrayed them all and was now a servant of Voldemort. Arabella, his old flame, could no longer look him in the eye. So many more were dead, hiding, or had betrayed them long ago. Dead. No one was left. "NO ONE!" he screamed. The ornamental crockery on the shelves started to fly as lightning flashed, briefly and terribly illuminating the room.
He had failed James and Lily, all those years ago. When James had trusted him more than life itself, trusted him with his very family, Sirius had suggested a decoy. It had been a clever plan when they talked that night, the last night he saw them alive. To use puny little Peter Pettigrew as the secret keeper, it was something Voldemort did not think they would be stupid enough to do. Sirius would be chased across the countryside, while the Potters were safe no matter what happened, because no one would suspect they had used Peter. Why hadn't he suspected Peter? He had overlooked him, like everyone did. He was the slow kid, the fat kid, the one that nobody paid any attention to, the one that everyone felt sorry for. Did Voldemort feel sorry for him now? As he contemplated darkly to himself, the wind whipped around, shaking his old house.
Sirius had tried, for a year and a half, to put his life back together, all for Harry's sake. He was to take Harry very soon. By September, custody would have been transferred. But Harry couldn't make it. He hadn't held out. He wasn't strong enough. Why should he have been? He had been barely fifteen when he took his life. No one, especially at his age, should have been able to handle the strain they all somehow expected Harry to miraculously deal with.
HE, Sirius Black, the wonderful godfather, had expected just as much of Harry, maybe more. How could he not? Every time he saw Harry, he saw James again. James at fifteen, Prongs, the leader of the Marauders, ready with another dungbomb. How could anyone NOT see James when they looked at Harry? The two were clearly father and son. And he had Lily's eyes, Lily's beautiful emerald eyes. Those eyes that made every guy weak at the knees, that made every girl look at her with daggers, Harry had had THOSE eyes. He got the best of both parents, but what good did it do him? No good, none at all now he was dead. Maggots, maggots, were feasting on that body that could have belonged to James, the eyes that looked like Lily's were flat and dull, like a corpse's. Because he was a corpse. A corpse. "A BLOODY STINKING CORPSE!" He began to jump up and down, punching and kicking everything, the bed, the floor, himself. Thunder rolled, lightning struck a tree outside, setting it aflame.
So now what? The ministry had made him an Auror again, and Dumbledore wanted him to teach. Defense Against the Dark Arts. It had always been a cursed position. No one could last a year there anymore. But Snape wanted it. Snape. How he and James had hated Snape once, reviled him. James ... Harry ... dead. Everyone died eventually. But why do the good die young? Why, why, WHY??? This time, no words could form in Sirius's throat as he screamed his anguish. There was nothing left in the room to break. Nothing but himself, and he was determined not to go as Harry did. Not yet. Harry had left him a note, telling him not to. For Harry, he would live. "Oh, Harry," he whispered, his violent anger and remorse finally starting to fade. Sirius Black, the famed wizard once feared by every witch and wizard, curled up in a little ball and wept. Outside, the violent and terrible storm finally died, replaced by steady drizzle.
He had been the first one to the Dursleys'. It had been he who had burst open the cupboard under the staircase, it had been he who bore the battered body out the front door, tears streaming down his face. He had failed in every way. He had failed James, he had failed Lily, he had failed Harry. There was nothing left, no one left. Of the old companions, no one remained. James and Lily were gone, their son newly dead as well. Remus was in hiding, his condition making association with the outside world more difficult with each passing month. Peter had betrayed them all and was now a servant of Voldemort. Arabella, his old flame, could no longer look him in the eye. So many more were dead, hiding, or had betrayed them long ago. Dead. No one was left. "NO ONE!" he screamed. The ornamental crockery on the shelves started to fly as lightning flashed, briefly and terribly illuminating the room.
He had failed James and Lily, all those years ago. When James had trusted him more than life itself, trusted him with his very family, Sirius had suggested a decoy. It had been a clever plan when they talked that night, the last night he saw them alive. To use puny little Peter Pettigrew as the secret keeper, it was something Voldemort did not think they would be stupid enough to do. Sirius would be chased across the countryside, while the Potters were safe no matter what happened, because no one would suspect they had used Peter. Why hadn't he suspected Peter? He had overlooked him, like everyone did. He was the slow kid, the fat kid, the one that nobody paid any attention to, the one that everyone felt sorry for. Did Voldemort feel sorry for him now? As he contemplated darkly to himself, the wind whipped around, shaking his old house.
Sirius had tried, for a year and a half, to put his life back together, all for Harry's sake. He was to take Harry very soon. By September, custody would have been transferred. But Harry couldn't make it. He hadn't held out. He wasn't strong enough. Why should he have been? He had been barely fifteen when he took his life. No one, especially at his age, should have been able to handle the strain they all somehow expected Harry to miraculously deal with.
HE, Sirius Black, the wonderful godfather, had expected just as much of Harry, maybe more. How could he not? Every time he saw Harry, he saw James again. James at fifteen, Prongs, the leader of the Marauders, ready with another dungbomb. How could anyone NOT see James when they looked at Harry? The two were clearly father and son. And he had Lily's eyes, Lily's beautiful emerald eyes. Those eyes that made every guy weak at the knees, that made every girl look at her with daggers, Harry had had THOSE eyes. He got the best of both parents, but what good did it do him? No good, none at all now he was dead. Maggots, maggots, were feasting on that body that could have belonged to James, the eyes that looked like Lily's were flat and dull, like a corpse's. Because he was a corpse. A corpse. "A BLOODY STINKING CORPSE!" He began to jump up and down, punching and kicking everything, the bed, the floor, himself. Thunder rolled, lightning struck a tree outside, setting it aflame.
So now what? The ministry had made him an Auror again, and Dumbledore wanted him to teach. Defense Against the Dark Arts. It had always been a cursed position. No one could last a year there anymore. But Snape wanted it. Snape. How he and James had hated Snape once, reviled him. James ... Harry ... dead. Everyone died eventually. But why do the good die young? Why, why, WHY??? This time, no words could form in Sirius's throat as he screamed his anguish. There was nothing left in the room to break. Nothing but himself, and he was determined not to go as Harry did. Not yet. Harry had left him a note, telling him not to. For Harry, he would live. "Oh, Harry," he whispered, his violent anger and remorse finally starting to fade. Sirius Black, the famed wizard once feared by every witch and wizard, curled up in a little ball and wept. Outside, the violent and terrible storm finally died, replaced by steady drizzle.