Disclaimer: I don't own Sirius Black, or the rest of Harry Potter's world.
When it came down to it, he was just twenty-one. Just twenty-one. So much had happened to him, and he was just twenty-one.
Sometimes, he wondered if he'd already lived out his entire life. So much, there was just so much — a crazy whirl of jokes and life-or-death battles and parties and grief and pranks and hatred. Maybe he'd had all there was to have, and now it was over.
Still, he was just twenty-one. Twenty-one! Just four years ago, he'd been in Hogwarts, still running wild and partying and playing practical jokes and sneaking out to Hogsmeade at night to get drunk.
And now, he was in Azkaban. In Azkaban. A murderer.
How can a twenty-one year old be a murderer? So young. So young.
Of course, he didn't do it, he knew that. He didn't kill Wormtail, or all those Muggles. That's what he was here for, he thought. He wasn't even sure anymore. But he did know that he as good as killed them, he as good as killed James and Lily.
Twenty-one. A killer.
But he'd been a killer before twenty-one, been a killer ever since eighteen. Ever since he killed that first Death Eater, in a fight that should never have happened, when his Auror training group got accidentally caught in an actual battle.
He hadn't meant to kill him. It had been an accident. The man had stumbled just as Sirius shot off his Bone-Breaker Curse.
He hit the man in the skull.
They say killing gets easier, the more you do it.
Sirius wasn't sure. The killing part had always been easy, he supposed, caught up in the moment, adrenalin pumping. But the part afterwards — the part where you realized you'd just taken a human life, that was always terrible. That would always be terrible.
But it had never been this terrible.
James and Lily, dammit. James and Lily.
They were twenty-one, also. It was so easy to forget. Over the years — it felt so strange to think that; it hadn't been that long, not really — they'd become almost the very core of the Order, the ones who were always hopeful. They and the Longbottoms, two couples who stood firm in the face of the deepest darkness. It was so easy to forget that James and Lily were only twenty-one.
They were all so young, so old at such a young age. They should have been still wandering, screwing around, not set in what they were going to do with their lives. Instead, they were the front line defense in a massive war, fighting for their lives and others' against the armies of the most powerful Dark wizard of the century.
Twenty-one year olds shouldn't know heartache, not like they did. They shouldn't be world-weary. They should still be bursting with life and energy.
Twenty-one year olds shouldn't have fought in vain for innocent people's lives, shouldn't have been forced to flee and leave their helpless charges to the mercy of evil wizards. Twenty-one year olds shouldn't have had it drilled into their heads that when it came down to it, they were more important to keep alive than terrified five-year-olds. Twenty-one year olds shouldn't have been made to base every decision on cynical calculations. Twenty-one year olds shouldn't have had their dreams crushed.
It still haunted Sirius — that he'd been set to guarding a famous Auror's children against Death Eaters. That they'd come in greater force than anyone expected. That he'd had to Apparate out for his life, and leave the children there.
That he was supposed to do that.
He was a killer, all right. At twenty-one, he'd killed more than most people ever would.
At twenty-one, he was facing the end of any life that could be called a life.
That was the worst part of it, he supposed. That this was forever, that he would be lying here trapped in the torment of his own mind until he died.
He was twenty-one, and everything was over. He was here in Azkaban, and he could never escape — that idea made him snort with mirthless laughter. Escape? From here?
There is no tomorrow, Sirius. There is yesterday, and that is all.
He remembered James, when his parents had died. He remembered how James had stood upright, eyes wide and terrible all night, and then at nearly midnight abruptly collapsed onto the couch and sobbed his heart out, just one more war-orphaned child. Because that's what they were, really. Children, their childhood torn from them by war. And Sirius was a child now, overcome by panic. He was twenty-one, for God's sake. Twenty-one, and it was the end of everything.
When they'd captured him, he'd been laughing, laughing the wild, deranged laugh of a man whose entire life has been torn away, a man who has nothing left to lose. And he'd spat in their faces, when he'd calmed down a little. He'd been defiant and proud. He'd yelled "Fuck you!" at Crouch when the man took one glance at him and instructed the guards to lock him up, then walked away.
But when it came down to it, he was just twenty-one. And so, when everyone was gone and he was alone in the dark, cold cell, he broke down and cried. Cried for James and Lily, and Remus, whom he'd wrongly mistrusted and who must now think he was a murderer, and for the children who'd died because he'd gone, and for all the people he couldn't save, and everyone caught up in this vortex of darkness they called war. He cried for the world. And he couldn't deny, he cried for himself as well. He cried for himself, condemned at twenty-one.
Twenty-one, a mad mass murderer and a dangerous convict.
Twenty-one, older than he would ever be.
Twenty-one until the end of time.
Just twenty-one.
A/N: Yeah, I had an abrupt change in mood today. I think it came from reading angsty Remus/Sirius fics. This was originally going to be R/S, but I decided not to do that when I got about halfway through and it still wasn't. Anyway, please review. It will make me very happy. Very, very happy. It will make me bounce up and down with delight. And I'll even reply to your review on my LiveJournal (the "homepage" link on my profile). Although it occasionally takes me a while.