It was his fault. Of course it was. It was his fault they were dead. All his fault. Because he had to switch secret keepers of course. He had to trust bloody Peter. Maybe if they hadn't switched, everything would have been okay - sure, the death eaters had ways to make them talk, but he would have done anything to protect them. He would have spent days being tortured, endured the most horrific treatment. He would have died for them.

But he never got the chance.

So now he was here, because everyone thought that he'd killed them. And he supposed he had - it was his fault, after all. But Peter was still out there and Harry…Harry had to grow up in a world with no parents. He would never know how much his parents had loved him, how much everyone had loved him. He'd been such a wonderful child - so tiny and brilliant and adorable - and he'd been Sirius' Godson. He remembered how happy he'd been when James had told him, the thought of being able to help raise a child after everything terrible he'd suffered…

But of course, he never got that chance either.

Poor Harry. He wondered who had him now. Remus? No, Remus would never have 'risked' Harry's life in that way. It should have been Marlene, but of course, she was dead too.

Dead dead dead, they were all dead.

She was dead and yet he could still see her, as he always had. Beautiful with her blazing brown eyes and flowing blonde hair - her eyes had always been so vibrant and full of life…until they weren't, of course. Until they were blank, unseeing, devoid of life…

Her funeral had been the second-worst day of his life.

She'd always been so brave, and yes, he'd admit it now, when it didn't matter, when there was no one to be falsely arrogant with - she'd been braver than he could ever hope to be, and it was something he'd always admired her for. But of course, her bravery and compassion had lead to her death.

Dead. They were all dead.

He wondered what things were like on the other side of those bars. He wondered if Harry was happy. He wondered if Remus hated him - not that he could fault him. He hated himself. He wondered if Peter was still alive - would he ever get the chance to kill him? After losing so much, it was one of the only things he truly wanted anymore.

He would have died to bring them back.

He would have died to have them live.

But it didn't matter, none of it did.

o-O-o

Ah, time for food. And for the dementors to attempt to suck some of his happiness away. He wondered if they hated him most because he never had anything to offer them. He never thought about 'happy' things anymore, he scarcely knew the meaning of the word. All those wonderful memories that he still possessed…they were a treasure he'd never permit himself to enjoy.

Maybe one day - the day he escaped and got his revenge, maybe that day, he'd open the chest and let himself remember and properly mourn the death of his best friends and everything horrible that had happened that night.

But until then, he wouldn't give himself - or them - the satisfaction.

And so it all starts again.

Dead dead dead, they were all dead.