Disclaimer: I don't own em, I only write about them because I have all these stories on my insides that make me fuzzy and I want to share them and...; Don't look at me like that.

Author's notes: Every chapter will be in another character's POV. Next up is Arthur, then Molly, Harry, Severus, George and finally Percy.

It was the summer of his sixth year. Nearly seventeen. Our boy was growing.

James...? Sirius? Do you see this? Lily, look at him. Isn't he wonderful?

It's been months since I last saw Sirius. Months and months, since I offered that warm embrace that I always did when he cried. Months and months, since I shushed him and rocked him, trying to convince him the Dementors of his dreams were just that...a part of his dreams.

He never believed me.

It had all felt so empty without him. For thirteen years I was without him. For thirteen years I mourned the death of the Marauders. I mourned and it was in vain, because my Sirius was innocent. MY Sirius. Yes you heard me correctly. Mine.

Sometimes I feel Moony claimed Padfoot more than I claimed Sirius, but Sirius always said that we were Moony and Padfoot, even if I always separated our forms. Moony claims people. I try not to. But Moony has claimed Harry, Ron, Hermoine...the whole Weasley clan and even my school enemy, Severus.

I've been staying at Grimmauld Place since he passed through the veil. Molly stops by when she has time, and Arthur always finds time to rest his weary feet after work and before family. Don't get me wrong, Arthur is very much and whole-heartedly head over heels in love with his family, Merlin bless him, but with that many people its hard to just sit quietly and have a drink or two.

Molly won't let anyone else over, which saddens me. I know I should just leave. I know she'd let them visit me if I weren't here. She says that Grimmauld Place has its ghosts...and not like the one that rattles its chains in her attic. Too many shadows, she says.

I think I've become one of those shadows.

And it's only getting worse.

It started in spring. A gloomy March, filled with frost and stillness. As the wolf would release me from his hell begotten claws, I would stare out the windows at the frost nipping at the branches of the spindly saplings. It would hang on the unfallen dead leaves, tracing magnificent patterns on the insides of the leaf. I know. When the pain is at its worst, I find staring at something, listlessly, the most amusing.

I could feel the wrong down to my toes, and yet I could see nothing different from any other change. Blood trickled from self-inflicted wounds; something my subconscious pointed out wouldn't have happened if Padfoot were there. I felt another sob wrack at my sore body. Somewhere deep inside, where the wrong was, a small voice said 'Harry,' and as much as I denied it, I believed it through and through.

April brought twittering birds, brighter mornings and less frost. I was thankful for the lack of ice. I always hated how the ice wheedled its way into my bones, clutching at the tenderness and expanding it.

The wrongness was there again. Moreso this time. It felt so wrong. I curled into a ball, as if trying to avoid the wrongness. The evil inside me was growing and I didn't know why.

And suddenly I remember.

I remember my father talking to the Healers at Mungo's. I remember their soft words, as I leaned against the door trying to pull the words from mumblings.

"You know, of course, he will not have the average lifespan of a normal wizard?"

"Yes."

"If he starts complaining of something different, bring him here immediately."

"To live out his life?"

"No. We cannot let them live out their remaining time."

I couldn't tell Molly. I don't want to die. You understand...don't you?