VII.
Our favorite prisoner, Sirius, is never loathe to blame himself.
Although he is as frightened of some aspects of himself as he is of anything, he has never, so far as we have been able to learn, acted in a less than genuine way, however ruthless, and he judges himself far more harshly than he would most others of his kind. But he is always willing to accept another helping of guilt and ashes.
This guilt too is as delectable a delicacy as his dread, his grief, his loathing. It has a toxic piquancy to tempt even the most jaded palate. It is a subtle venom we much enjoy prodding out of old wounds and the infected places in old recollections.
But the one crime for which he judges himself the most harshly is one of the two he has not actually committed. It is a delectable irony, as well as one of the rarest commodities of all, here in our prison domain. Our prisoner is innocent. We can taste it in his every thought. We can taste his own knowledge of this fact equally clearly. He has never done any of the things he has been put here in our hands for.
This innocence, this irony, adds savor to every encounter we have with him. It is a luscious extra flavor that enhances all the rest. Each of us hopes the warm blooded creatures outside our sphere who have condemned him never realize their error. We would be loathe to ever let him go. We have all grown so fond of our Sirius.
He has done none of the things for which he has been condemned. But he has done much for which he condemns himself. He is innocent, but in no way is he completely blameless. There are black moments hidden in his memory still.
We expect to winnow them all out, in time. We expect to devour them all.
Ahhhh. Our Sirius.
