Sirius Black

How do you face your own brother? One's own brother, who's always been the parent's favourite. The brother, who's always been the better son. The brother, who gladly became a death eater, as soon as he got the chance. And the brother, who made the first step to bring an end to Voldemort.

He looked just like I remembered him. People don't age in this place; they do not change. The don't even exist.

He had the same deep black hair as me, but where mine dropped in soft waves, his was perfectly straight. It was falling down into his eyes, which were fixed on me, watching what I might do, his head tilted to the side, like a curious child. I was aware how similar we looked. An old neighbour had always called us the handsome black twins. I'd really liked that.

With both hands in my pockets, pretending not to be phased by any of this, I stood there and observed him. I'd always been good at feigning indifference. No one would've been able to tell how many questions were running through my head at this moment.

Why did you get sorted into Gryffindor?

I don't have any real answers for that, Regulus. I wish I did.

Maybe because I realized sooner than you, how wrong everything was. Because I knew, even back then, that I would die to save the world from Voldemort. I'm not saying that I had been exceptionally brave, I'm definitely not now. Like you always said, they probably confused my arrogance with courage. But I was determined to be better than our parents, maybe that was enough.

Maybe because the hat knew that I would find friends in Gryffindor. Real friends, for whom I was prepared to die for as well.

I don't know.

Did you ever love our parents?

Did I love the old man, who spent most of his time sitting in his office, screaming at his children knocking on the door, never bothering to listen to them? Who spent his spare time torching the only likeable family members out of the family tree and who hit me whenever I dared to talk about my friends?

I don't know.

Did I love our mother, who always tucked you in with a kiss on your forehead, when all I got were piercing stares? Who sent me a howler, as soon as she heard I became a Gryffindor, and then didn't bother with me for the rest of the year? The same woman, who still tormented me in the form of a portrait, years after her death?

I don't know.

Why did you run away?

Because I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't bear to watch your descend into the dark arts any longer, with our parents supporting you passionately. Because the enthusiasm in your voice, whenever you read about the mass killings on muggles in the prophet, became too much to endure. Because it tormented me realizing I couldn't help you. That you had to find your own way.

Why did I give up on you?

I don't know.

Do you love me?

Do I love my brothers, who's always been interested in the Dark Arts? The brother who's always been the perfect son, who had all our parent's love? The one who managed to get sorted into Slytherin? Who was successful with everything he touched, Quidditch, school, everything? The brother who choose to become a death eater?

I don't know.

But do I love the brother, who did acknowledge his mistakes in the end? Who always took care of the people closest to him, even a creature as vile as Kreacher? Do I love the brother I stepped in front of, whenever he actually managed to get into a fight with our parents? Who was deadly afraid of snakes, but passionately in love with Slytherin? The brother who was able to make me laugh? The one, who gifted me my motorcycle, as a last peace offering?

My only, little brother?

Yes!