Young Sirius Black, holding small, infant Harry in Godric's Hollow, cradling him for dear life, as if the child might slip away from between the crevices of his trembling fingers. The hickory-hued soil of the rubbled ground dirtied his bruised and battered knees, as he shuddered in front of the destroyed Potters’ house, short sobs escaping from betwixt his lips uncontrollably. The damn tears wouldn’t stop flowing. He hadn’t cried like this in a long time. His dark, manicured hair brushed across the baby’s sleeping face, holding him so, sovery close, just to make sure he was real. That he was still breathing. That he was still alive. The same grey eyes that watched as the frail child’s father sparked fireworks from his wand and made him giggle, the same eyes that watched his mother kiss his small forehead when he slept, the same eyes that witnessed his first mumbles and sounds… now, they witnessed his whole family slaughtered, bodies scattered around what once was a home, and now simply a charred, cursed house. Hagrid, oh, that big oaf, he’s trying to persuade him to just hand the bundle of blankets over, but he shakes his head. He shakes his head back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth, for he knows without this crippling responsibility, there will be nothing to keep him grounded. Without the heavy, weighted need to protect someone else, especially when that specific someone is the last remnant and memory his sacrilegious self has of his best friend of over a decade, he knows he'll spiral and lose it all. Well, what is he meant to do now? Without,, without James? It hurt to remember life before him, so how the fuck is he supposed to begin to imagine life after? James, who introduced him to the fickle concept of love beyond carnal desire, beyond financial benefit. Who taught him intimacy and affection in the form of indefatigable friendship, who welcomed him with open arms when everyone else turned him away, who would sacrifice everything at the drop of a hat for a broken, fragmented man. An undeserving man.
He doesn't want to let go. He can't let go. He can’t. This is his fault. It’s all his fault. If he was stronger, a pair of high school sweethearts wouldn’t be laying lifelessly in separate rooms, forever emancipated. If he were more careful, the dark mark wouldn’t be engraved in the ground. If he was better, some of the people he loved the most in this cruel, mortal world would be alive. Typical Black behavior, right? To end up failing when he was needed most. To end up not being there where he was finally wanted.
Young Sirius Black, accused of their death. Stuck with a bloody nose after being punched right in the bridge by Remus, he backed into the unforgiving wall, looking up while trying to seem intimidating from his spot on the cold ground. Remus looked rather wolf-like at this moment, he thought. Kind, gentle Remus. Sweet, caring Remus. What treacherous, perfidious thing had he done, to make him behave like this? The other two marauders, the people who were supposed to be there for him after he'd just lost the person he loved most in this world- they had him locked up. Trapped him behind these incessant iron bars that seemed to go on forever. Everywhere he looked, there was no solace from that relentless metal. And there was this stench, this smell which he could only classify as “death itself”. Now, Sirius was a strong person, but it was more than enough to drive any man insane. They pointed cruel fingers in his direction and claimed with proud, all-too-sure voices it was him. Why wouldn’t it be him? They’d known him for years, and we all know what the rest of his family is like. And of course, he's just like the rest of his family. How could he be any way else? If only they'd seen the signs earlier… that they had a dirty, vile pureblood supremacist amidst them.
Maybe James and Lily would be alive.
Young Sirius Black, only 21, would continue to spend the next twelve years of his life in a prison cell for a crime he could never even think to commit. In truth, he would sooner die than betray the Potters. But, who would listen to his truth? Only the whispers of deceit when he tried to close his eyes in the shadow of night, or the voices in his head tormenting him with laments of guilt when he locked eyes with his reflection- which, did not look much like his reflection anymore, in fact. Before this, he could never bring himself to grow any facial hair. It made him look far too much like his father. His matted hair had grown right past his shoulders, resembling rank, twisted vines, similar to the ones he’d had in his childhood garden that smelled of poisoned wine and medicinal cherry. Similar to the brambles overtaking the shreds of the Potters’ house. Skin stretched taut over a desiccated skeleton, he looked as if he’d aged multiple lifetimes in the span of a few treacherous years. Who would’ve believed? Sirius, who seemed to care more about the uniform waves of his hair than the fact that he was still breathing. Now, he couldn’t bear to care for either.
And ultimately, as Young Sirius Black rotted away in that filthy, soul-sucking cell, ripe with mildew and worn despair, his only lifeline was that perhaps his godson was still out there. Happy, healthy. Living the life that he was entitled to, and no less deserved. So how was he meant to react at the fear and disgust in Harry's eyes upon finally seeing him after all these years? The betrayal his voice carried as he shouted the wretched crimes Sirius had been imprisoned for? The cruel finger that pointed at him? He felt as if he could tangibly hear his heart shatter. Abandoned, once again. Accused, once again. His reputation followed him around like a stark shadow, even after his entire story had been rewritten.
.
“May the crown lie heavy on the bearer’s head, for the Lonely Prince of the Noble House of Black be condemned with a lust for rebellion”