The Figure Clothed in Black

Chapter 1. Sirius.

Harry was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, anger cursing through him. Nothing was right. Nothing was fair. He hated this. Why couldn't things be like they used to be? Why did his life have to be so complicated? He knew this answer to this question. He was the famous Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived. At the moment he hated everyone and everything. He hated Ron and Hermione for leaving him out of everything, even if he knew the reasons why they were, Albus Dumbledore for making him come back here, Remus Lupin for holding him when he was trying to get to Sirius, Bellatrix Lestrange for killing Sirius, his own cousin nonetheless, Sirius for leaving him alone, and most of Voldemort. All of his problems seemed to tie into Voldemort in one way or another.

Harry heard a pecking sound on his window and turned to see his owl, Hedwig, outside waiting for him to let her in. He pushed himself off the bed and let her in, taking the letter off her leg. It was from the Order as usual. He had done as they had requested and sent a letter every two or three days saying that he was fine and the Dursleys were bring their usual selves. Even though part of that was a lie. He wasn't fine. He was nowhere near fine. He hadn't been back for a month yet and suicide had already became an option to his mind a few times but he quickly dismissed it, he wasn't going to give Voldemort, or any of his followers, the satisfaction of how much Sirius's death had affected him. And he also wanted revenge on Bellatrix Lestrange for killing Sirius.

He picked up one of the books off the floor, found some parchment, and wrote back to the Order with the usual reply. He couldn't use his desk anymore. He had gotten really angry and frustrated and knocked it aside and broke one of the legs on it. His room was a mess. They were books, parchment, inkwells, and quills; everything you can imagine. He had tried to distract himself with doing schoolwork and reading but neither worked and he threw them aside.

He was trying not to think too much about Sirius's death but it didn't work. Even if he didn't think about it during the day, he was forced to think and relive it every night.

He was staring into the black veil in The Department of Mysteries in The Ministry of Magic, trying to see Sirius but couldn't at first. After a few minutes of staring something started moving toward him, and as it got closer he saw it was Sirius. He come as close as he could without actually stepping out of the veil. His face was chalk white with a trail of dried blood on the left side, pure fury written all over his face. Before Harry could say a word Sirius started screaming, "YOU KILLED ME!!! YOU KILLED ME!! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!! IF YOU HADN'T COME HERE I WOULDN'T BE DEAD!!!" When that started if anyone was there to listen they would hear Harry saying, "No," under his breath, getting louder every time he said it until finally he woke screaming, twisted in his bedcovers, on the floor, panting and pale.

Because of this Harry had been trying his best to stay awake as long as he could never falling asleep purposely. He would usually sneak out of the house and walk around Little Whinging. He did that for two to three hours before hading back to 4 Privet Drive, sneak back in, and try to occupy himself with something in his room. The only thing that seemed to help him stay awake in his room, though it made him sad and mad, was to look at the picture album Hagrid had made for him in his first year, after the Sorcerer's Stone. His favorite picture was one of his parents, Sirius, Remus, Peter had been there but Harry scratched him out, and Harry in his mother's arms. He had three other favorites in the album. His parents wedding day, one of his father laying down on a couch with Harry asleep on his chest, and one with him in Sirius's arms on Sirius's motorbike.

As he looked at each picture he made up a story for each one. Making up what they were doing before it was taken, if someone had set up the person or persons to look like that or if they had been taken by surprise, and the like. He had created his own little world with his parents, happy and alive, in his head.

That night he had just laid down on his bed planning on resting his eyes but not going to sleep, but his body wouldn't let him and he fell into a restless sleep.

He woke up the next morning and went downstairs, fully clothed, took a piece of cold toast off the table, and turned his attention to the television. The reporter was telling of yet another mysterious killing. No one was sure how he or she was dying. They appeared to be in perfect health except for the fact that they were dead. Harry was probably the only one in all of Little Whinging (bar Mrs.Figg) who understood the significance of the deaths. The country had been told that it was some terrorist group from the mid-east that were doing it. They didn't know why they were but they were nonetheless. But in truth, it was Voldemort and his Death Eaters that were killing them. They knew that someone had been killed if a skull with a serpent protruding from the mouth showed above the house. The reporters said that this was the terrorist group's trademark and if you saw anyone with that anywhere on their bodies to call the police immediately. There had been an attack last night on a family of four somewhere 200 miles north of Little Whinging.

"Well you wanted to see they news so bad last year, is this what you wanted to see?" Vernon Dursley said across the table to Harry.

Harry didn't say anything.

"Boy, I asked you a question, now answer me!" he roared across the table.

"No, Uncle Vernon," Harry said quietly as the reporter went on to another story about how some boy had cleaned up his neighborhood. Harry finished his toast and went back upstairs to his room and took out his picture album and began making up stories.