Black as Sin

Prologue

What have I done?

The words were familiar to him, ones he repeated often and with varying levels of shock, rage, and brokenness. A mantra.

The story of my life.

He snorted ruefully. Snorted, because there was no laughter here.

The first time he'd said them he was but a child. Poisoned by rage, not thinking straight--if at all. He had done it half as a prank, a foolish and dangerous prank, and half as an opportunity to give that slime what he deserved.

But it had been James who faced the danger.

And worse, it had been Remus he had wronged. Gentle, thoughtful Remus, at once helpless and terrifying, afraid yet powerful beyond comprehension.

And when he recognized the extent, the consequence of his crime, he had wanted to die. He couldn't bear the thought of facing Moony again, but James, with almost cruel determination, had made him do it.

The liquid amber eyes haunted him even now.

But that was nothing compared to the next time--the moment his motorcycle cleared the forest's lip and he saw before him in the sky, hanging huge and ugly, the Dark Mark, dripping over the Hollow.

He knew.

Knew before his tires ground into the rough-hewn walk that should have led to their house. Knew before he sifted his way through ruin that had somehow been a home. Knew before he saw their bodies, empty-eyed and dreadful.

It was all his fault.

What have I done? O God, what have I done?

And the baby. He hadn't wept until he'd seen him there, squirming amid the rubble, mewling feebly like some wounded wild creature. Blood and pus oozed from a jagged tear on the child's forehead as the man bent to lift him. His child now, his charge. An orphan.

Because of me. What have I done?

In that instant, he knew he'd been had, knew his own stupidity and naiveté had caused it all. Clutching the small, trembling child, all that was left of his best friends, he knew with whom he shared the blame.

But a few short hours later, when he saw the true ruse--too late!--he finally comprehended that the bumbling weakling he had never even bothered to suspect had outwitted him. By the time his wand was taken and snapped in two, by the time he was led away by a legion of Ministry officials, he was beyond caring, beyond thinking, except--

What the hell have I done?

But this, if possible, was worse. Because now, with the newspaper spread across his bony knees, Sirius Black knew he had managed to screw up once more. Hands shaking, he tore at the picture, folded it messily, and shoved it into his shirt pocket, close to the skin. He drew a ragged breath through his nose and flexed his fingers, knuckles cracking. He let his head loll backward, grimaced with satisfaction as it banged into the concrete wall. Again. Again. The pain was good. It eased the truth, the bitter self-loathing, the grim understanding of his own botched purpose. His unjust imprisonment, his hopes for redemption no longer mattered, because he had again failed--failed to do the one task left him: to protect the child.

He was alive.

He was poised to strike.

He was at Hogwarts.