La Vie Bohème

Truth is something I've not lost hold of, but it seems that it is something everyone else has. The lack of one listening to the truth cost me my freedom. The failure to recognise the truth kept me trapped. Truth is both a wonderful and painful thing (wasn't it Dumbledore that said something like that? I'd like to keep my sources straight), and because of this exact nature of Truth, perhaps that is why so many people would rather live in denial. Who would want to face harsh realities, though they are most certainly there, when one could live in a conjured world devoid of such things, but never lacking in peace and harmony? Those people are only living on superficialities, for they know within themselves that the good times will come to an end, and while it's fine to pretend that everything's well in those times of peace, it is not fine at all to continue that trick of the mind when the good times have actually ended. One must then strive to restore the world, not just their world, but the actual world, to restore those peaceful times they so enjoyed that much quicker. Yes, truth is both beautiful and ugly, it will set you free, and it will condemn you, but it is something we must all accept, regardless of the consequences that accompany it.

Ever since Azkaban, everything has looked so bleak, so ugly. Sure, there were moments I could identify with Beauty, something so prevalent in my years at Hogwarts, but those recent moments were few and far between. Returning to Grimmauld Place had expelled any thoughts of Beauty held within me. There was no semblance of Beauty to be had in that dreary house. I refuse to call it a home, for the word "home" implies feelings of warmth, of happiness, of family (not necessarily blood family, but family in the sense that you belong and are wanted within the home), of love, all things of Beauty, and if there is one thing Number 12, Grimmauld Place lacks, it is Beauty. There were moments, though, that it almost felt like home, especially when Harry was around, but there was always an underlying feeling haunting the premises declaring that this house would never be a home no matter how greatly it was cleaned, or how much of my family's presence was removed; it would for ever be tinged with a spectre of what it had symbolised in my childhood, and therefore would never be beautiful.

I was loved, I suppose, not by my family, though. Family from whom Love is to be unconditional, but I suppose I'm being a bit hypocritical for I did not exactly love them. "Loathing" would be a far more accurate term for my feelings for my so-called family, although in my defence, it wasn't until they started openly claiming what a disappointment I was to them, how much of a failure I was, all because I didn't agree with their ideals, with their dogmas that I started resenting them so vehemently. Intuitive Moony once said that my adamant loathing was a result of a "subconscious" defence mechanism. Even though, consciously, their opinion of me did not matter (I was quite secure in my values), each and every child seeks approval from its parents, and my own parents' rejection of me and my beliefs affected me much more than I was willing to allow. My pride was also at stake, he said, and that was another reason why I reacted by hating them. "No one wants to let someone see that their hurtful comments have effected them, and so they cocoon themselves in a shroud of indifference, that they don't care what the others think of them, that they won't give the others the satisfaction of seeing how much they've hurt them with their comments, and that's what you're doing, Sirius. You do care no matter how much you deny it. No, you won't change your beliefs, nor your actions that are a result of those beliefs for them, but you wish your parents would just accept you as you are, and no one faults you for that."

Rejected by my family, I found Love in my friends, and that meant more to me than anything I can possibly fathom, and I would have done anything I could to protect them. I would die for them...I did die for them, maybe not in a direct sacrifice, but I fought for Harry, to try to keep him safe, because I loved, no, I love him, and I can only hope he and Remus aren't too angry with me for being so abysmally stupid as to get myself killed with assistance from my dear cousin. Honestly, Bella, I couldn't have done it without you.

I've loved seeing James and Lily again, as well as other old friends from the Order, and finally realising with my heart that Harry's parents did not blame me for their untimely and tragic ends. I'd been told enough by Remus that I was not responsible when I would fall into periods of moroseness, mooning over my shortcomings in my abilities to help Harry, to care for him, that I knew I was not guilty, but I couldn't feel it, and it was freeing in a way when I finally knew it within myself, but to bring about this understanding, I've had to render myself imprisoned once again. I love spending the time with them, I truly do, but I would trade it all just to spend one more day with their son and our friend and just let them know how much they mean to me; I don't think I ever made it very clear while I was alive, and I regret that perhaps more than anything. But perhaps I shouldn't be so indignant about this current state of affairs, after all, freedom is something I've not known in nearly twenty years, I should be used to it. Sure, I am free of a corporeal state, finally free of being hunted, free from having to return to that bloody house of my youth, free from the risk of receiving a fatal blow to my soul through the kiss of a foul creature. Yes, I am free, but never have I felt so trapped by my inability to do anything; I've got no chance to set things to rights, to protect those I care about. At least when I was living, there was always the shot that Wormtail would fuck up and get caught, and I would be free to act and to protect, but that chance is lost to me. I can only observe and not affect, look, but not touch, and it is hell. I know I wasn't the best person in life, but do I really deserve such torment? such a continuation of my varied imprisonments? Give me mortal toil-I'd much prefer it to this bloody "freedom".

Perhaps I will one day rediscover pure, unadulterated truth, beauty, freedom, and love, but for now, this is Calcutta; Bohemia is dead.