Sorry, I know it's been a while. I've been very unwell lately. But do to the demand of a few encouraging readers (you know who you are), I offer this. This is the next (final, and I mean it) instalment of the "happy" little series I've started with Sirius. It's not finished yet. This is only the first chapter (wow, a fic with chapters from me...imagine that!). Anyway...enjoy.

BTW, please, please, please give me a little, teeny, tiny feedback. I need inspiration for this. It could end up being a big one.

The Padfoot Tragedies (all links found on profile)

Living Death


Mourning Morning


Words I Never Could Say

The Reason

As of Yet Unnamed

A History of Death

Everyone Wants to Die

My name is Sirius, Sirius Black. Yes, I am that Sirius Black. You may have heard of me; I'm the boy who was dead and now is not. I'm rather unremarkable really. I just happened to want to die. It happens. Everyone wants to die, you know, they just don't know that they do.

I did it though. I died. And now I'm here, not dead.

It doesn't make any sense to me either.

I suppose I was six the first time, but I don't know if it really counts. At the time I hadn't really wanted to die, at least not consciously. Father had just taught me a spell that would crush every bone in my opponents body should I so choose, and I had used it on Lucius Malfoy, who was visiting Number 12 Grimmould Place with his father. Lucius had been tormenting me with some spells the older Slytherins had taught him, so I crushed every single bone to powder in his hand—his wand hand—and his arm. The healers almost couldn't put him together again, and an heir that can't do magic is worthless to the family. In the end they had to banish all the bones and grow them back. Father was so proud of my accomplishment—he never really expected me to be able to cast that spell, you see—but all I could hear were Malfoy's pathetic screams while he praised me. It wouldn't be the last time I'd use that spell.

He felt me in his study alone, and I nicked my finger. I don't remember on what. A bubble of red blood grew from the little prick, and the screaming quieted. The more red that came, the less I could hear him. But the screaming came back when it stopped bleeding.

So I took a silver letter opener in the shape of a serpent from my father's desk and let it bite into my arm. It felt good, and the voice went away, so I kept opening my flesh a little more and more till I had a cut from my elbow to my white wrist. If it felt so good with one arm open offering fresh blood to the demons that called Black Manor home, wouldn't it feel even better with both?

It was harder to open my right arm. The letter opener was slick with my scarlet blood, and my left hand wasn't working right. I was surprised by how red my blood was. Mother always told me I had Black blood, but my blood wasn't black.

Once both arms were cut into the letter opener slipped out of my hand. I had gotten blood all over my father's floor, and I knew he wouldn't like that. My head felt all light, and my chest hurt. Then blackness. When I woke up I was strapped down tight to a bed. The air stank of purity and disinfectant. The light was harsh and bright white. I hated it. I was in St. Mungo's…in the mental ward. Someone had found me.

The Healer that was taking care of me was kind, but at the time she seemed like a monster to me—something completely foreign. I didn't know what she was saying to me—I know several languages, but at the time, not English. Father didn't want me to associate with muggle riff-raff, and what better way to do so but insure I didn't even know what they were saying. But she didn't point her wand at me and hiss that dreaded word and make my whole body feel as though every inch was subjected to a raging inferno of pain. She was kind.

I wonder what she thought of me. In my limited experience with children my own age most six-year-olds don't slit open their arms to stop the screaming. Most don't slit open their arms at all. Does that mean there was something wrong with me? Maybe. I never said there wasn't.

Apparently the Healers at various institutions have been using my case as a study for many years. To date I've been diagnosed with forty-seven different maladies, and that's only the magical ones. A "revolutionary" thinker has employed the use of a muggle science called psychology to solve the reason behind my madness. I stopped counting how many "conditions" they've diagnosed me with after fifty.

In short, they don't know what's wrong with me. It's almost funny really. I know what's wrong with me. What's wrong with me is what is wrong with every other Black. It's the Family Madness. We all have our vices; I just never limited myself to one. My mother liked to drink. My father did, too. Cousin Cissy loved her perfect, thin waist, so she wouldn't eat. She claimed it made her feel "pure." I tried that, too, after I had been sorted into Gryffindor and the Family turned Its back on me. There was nothing pure about it. It was agony every second. I never tried that again—if I'm going to die I prefer it to be a bit quicker and a little more pleasurable. But this was the third time I tried it, not the second as you will soon see. Cousin Bella just liked to hurt others. We all have our problems.

When I came to Hogwarts everyone was afraid of me—a snot nosed brat. I was the Slytherin-who=got=into-Gryffindor. No one trusted me. I trusted no one. I was alone. The Family would have nothing to do with me since I managed to dishonor them, and no one would have anything to do with me because of the Family. Then Remus Lupin, the quiet, unassuming boy who was one of my roommates, extended an offer of friendship, which I took. Soon I had gained two other friends—Peter Pettigrew and James Potter. It's funny. James became my best friend, but he hated me with everything he had before. Without Remus, I think we would always have hated each other.

My parents hated the Potters. And back then I just wanted to do something that would make them angry. It worked, a little too well at times. Later on when I ran away from Them the Potters took me in.

James never understood how I could do it, and he'll never be able to. His parents loved him, and he could do no wrong in their eyes. He never had to worry about his parents devouring his heart while he laid dreaming visions of goblin kings and labyrinths greater than any comprehensible. I laid awake waiting for it. The people who were supposed to love me no matter what would have killed me at the first sign of weakness. There was no such thing as "love" in the Family. Before I came to Hogwarts I had never been loved before. But I digress. You don't want to hear about that. You want to know why I did it.

Well, I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific. I did many things after all. I suppose you'll just have to wait until I get to the part of my little story you're most interested in.