Chapter 1
Sirius - 1919.
Sirius walks slowly toward the grave. It’s almost Christmas, James’ favorite holiday: the snow, the carolers, the presents. James had loved it all. He sighed deeply and placed a single flower on his grave. James Potter, 1854-1917. Two years since he lost James. And Regulus, but he tried not to think about that. Six years since he lost Remus, the loneliness still gets to Sirius sometimes. He tried not to think too much about that, either. He wondered when it would finally be his time to go, not for lack of trying, but out of how tired he was. Sirius felt something bitter curl inside him. Anger. Not necessarily at himself, but more at Regulus. At his mother and father, and what they did to them.
Sirius didn’t visit the grave as often as one should visit their dead best friend’s grave, but part of him didn’t care about that. There would be no grave for Sirius next to James. No, he would most likely be put in the same cemetery as his ‘family’, even if he was still disowned. Even in death, Sirius couldn’t seem to get away from his wretched family. Regulus wouldn’t be there, however; his parents deemed him too deformed and hideous to be black. A stain on the noble name of Black. Sirius had never thought that. He loved Regulus more than life itself. Not that it did him any good. After James died, so did Regulus, even after fighting so hard to live.
Sirius blinked hard, trying to stop the tears that were threatening to fall. He swallowed thickly and inhaled deeply. He hated cemeteries. He hated the feeling of impending doom, and not knowing what was after.
He turned sharply and walked fast towards his carriage waiting outside the cemetery, hearing the snow crunch under his feet. The cold air was biting at his nose and fingers. He always hated the cold. He hates a lot of things these days.
The carriage ride back to his house is slow and tedious. He stares out the frosty windows, watching trees pass and snowfall to the ground. The carriage pulls to a stop, and Sirius moves to get out. He groans as his back and knees creak while stepping out of the carriage. His joints get worse every day, and he laughs to himself as he thinks of Remus and how he was so achy all the time. Always complained about his back hurting when he would spend hours sewing costumes for the actors and actresses, back hunched over, focused on his work. It was always worth it, however, because Remus’ work was nothing short of magical. He always designed the most beautiful costumes, and Remus was always so proud of his work.
Sirius unlocked the door to his house, and it was quiet when he walked in. It always was, as Sirius lived alone, and never had guests over. He lived in complete solitude.
Completely alone again.
He heaved a sigh as he made his way into the kitchen and poured himself a generous glass of whisky. He always felt like moping after he visited James or Remus, and this had been his favorite way of moping for a long, long time.
He wondered what he should do for the day, as it was very nearly dark, with winter hours recently. He just felt a pit in his chest and didn’t really feel like doing anything about it. Moping it was. He took the bottle upstairs and drank himself to sleep.
***
When he woke, the only thing he noticed was the bright light shining into his room. He winced as he got out of bed, grimacing at the headache he seemed to have formed. He cursed as he tripped over his shoes, stumbling into the hallway. He turned, bumping into the piano. He hated that piano. He hated who it made his brother become. Who it made James become. Who it made him become. He swore never to look at it again, but here he was, just like every other time, looking at the piano. He would smash it one day. He would. He was going to, just not now. He would do it later. He always said he would do it later. He never would.
Sirius Black would die several months after coming face to face with that piano on that day. He never smashed the piano.