Initials of Fate

Harry slumped up the spiral staircase towards the sixth year boys' dormitory. His face was blank as he walked, his eyes glazed over and vacant. It was late, but tiredness was not the reason behind his listless mood.

It had been just over three months since he had been back at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, and he hadn't felt the normal pang of excitement he normally experienced when Christmas - normally his favourite holiday - was just around the corner. On the contrary, his mood had been growing ever more sullen as the festive season approached.

It reminded him of Sirius.

In fact, he knew exactly what it felt like to be in Sirius' position now. Having no one. Everyone around you gaily singing carols, laughing jovially with each other and exchanging gifts of love and friendship. Sirius hadn't had that while he had been in Azkaban. Hell, Sirius hadn't even had that while at Grimmauld Place, before or after he had moved out, become a godfather, been framed and shipped off to a wizard prison only to escape, be reunited and then take part in a deathly duel with his cousin.

He probably hadn't even had a good Christmas the one time Harry had been there.

He remembered how Sirius had only been too happy to accommodate the Weasleys and Harry himself while Mr Weasley had been in hospital last year. Harry had thought he'd been happy with them there, singing along to carols, which included a lot of Hippogriff name-dropping.

But it had all been a lie.

Harry also remembered how depressed Sirius had been when Harry had left. Harry had left him so many times. Harry had been his only family. And he had abandoned him. Again and again and again. No wonder he got lonely. Not wonder he felt the need to prove himself - to get out once in a while to stretch his legs - to kick some Death Eater arse.

And it had been Harry's fault. He was the reason Sirius had felt so worthless and inadequate. He was the reason why Sirius had wanted to fight that night. He was the reason why Sirius wasn't here anymore.

It was worse than death. No one had even bothered explaining it to him. No one had bothered to explain that he wasn't dead but just wasn't here either. It seemed as though Sirius had ceased to exist at all. Ever.

And it was all Harry's fault. He scowled as he remembered Hermione telling him how he had a 'saving people thing'. But he wasn't scowling out of contempt for Hermione, he was scowling out of contempt for himself. He did have 'saving people thing.'

His anger and sullen mood had been increasing every day since he had been back at school. Every time he laid eyes on Snape it increased. Every time he saw Dumbledore sitting quite serenely across from him in the Great Hall at breakfast, it increased.

Harry had had a lot of time to brew. His own feelings of worthlessness bubbled to the surface every so often in the form of a violent rage which he would take out on Ron, Hermione, Dobby...anyone. McGonagall had even sent him out of class once. And Lavender had only said "seriously!".

His rage was something Harry was beginning to lose more and more control over. But he didn't care. He didn't care that Ron and Hermione hardly spoke to him these days out of fright. He didn't care his grades had dropped. He didn't care that Snape still openly taunted him in Potions. He didn't even care enough to visit Hagrid.

He didn't care.

He walked slowly into his dorm room, every step he took made a soft 'thud' on the carpet as he traipsed over to his bed and pulled the curtains tightly around it. He didn't even care enough to get changed into his pyjamas.

He sat there, in the darkness of his own cave and brewed over his restless thoughts. Ron was snoring in an annoyingly erratic way and Harry felt the need to smother him in his own pillow. But then he would have killed again, wouldn't he? He would have killed the closest thing he had had to a father and the closest thing he'd had to a brother.

Twirling his wand absently in his hand, Harry stared glumly at the polished wood bordering around his bed as a trickle of moonlight appeared as the moon moved out of the clouds.

Something caught his eye. It was shimmering ever so slightly from within the crack that met between his mattress and the foot of the bed.

Harry leant over a little closer to see what it was. He squinted. He edged a little closer and pulled back his mattress hard to reveal the shimmering curiosity, his wand held on the ready in his hand.

J.P. + S.B.

Some stupid tag another student before him must have engraved into the wood. Possibly as a memento of their presence at Hogwarts in the past. He ran his index finger over the engraved letters. Must be initials, he thought. Whatever it was, it didn't interest Harry very much.

But it got him thinking. He wondered who had slept in this bed that he had slept in over the years. Maybe Tom Riddle himself had? Harry nearly let out a snort of laughter. That would be considered yet another stupid fact that bound him to his 'equal'. This time, Harry did let a snort escape from his mouth. It had nothing on Ron's current sound effects, though.

He found himself absently still rubbing his fingers across the carving in he bedpost at the foot of his bed. What did they mean? Was it a crush someone had had? Harry remembered a familiar scene from last year that he had seen in Snape's pensieve. He had preserved the whole scene in his memory perfectly. His father had been doodling out something rather like the markings on the wood of his bed. Except it had been J--

Harry stopped running his finger over the initials very suddenly. J.P.... They were his father's initials. James Potter. And... S.B.... It could mean only one thing. S.B. as in...Sirius Black?