Black. Sirius Black. My name is Sirius Black. Sirius Black. Black.

It is the Black part that haunts me. It pulses through my brain every moment, poisoning my waking hours and haunting my dreams. You’re Sirius Black, you’re a Black, they think you’re like the Blacks. It hurts me. If my mother could have lived to see what I have become… what they think I have become. She would have believed the stories they tell of me, would have told them to her friends, bursting with pride that her disappointment of a son had finally done something worthwhile, finally joined the cause. Her cause. My father’s cause. My brother’s cause. Lord Voldemort’s cause. I’m glad they died before they could have seen this, could have boasted of my alleged guilt. It would be one more thing to torment me.

I never fit in with my family, was never one of them. Only my cousin Andromeda was like me. We used to call ourselves “The ‘Black’ sheep�. The name seemed amusing then. Now it tortures me.

Purists. There, I’ve said it. That is what the Blacks are. That is what I was expected to be. But I wasn’t like that. I knew it didn’t matter what kind of blood someone had, but what kind of character. My brother Regulus, I can say with absolutely no regret, was living proof of that.

He was two years younger than me and, as my parents never ceased to remind me, the much better son. He accepted everything they said about blood and purity as truth. He was put into Slytherin, where every self-respecting pureblood wizard should be. He had himself a nice little group of purist, Dark Arts-loving friends Andromeda’s younger sister, my cousin Narcissa, got for him. He cursed Muggle-borns in the hallways at school, but later he did something far worse, and in my parents’ minds, far more heroic. He joined Voldemort. Afterward he panicked about the murder he was asked to do. He was always weak. Voldemort ordered him to be killed. My mother was heartbroken, but unsympathetic.

“He should have stayed true to the cause,� she declared. Perhaps I misspoke. Perhaps she wasn’t heartbroken. I don’t believe she had a heart.

My mother was completely devoid of maternal feeling, especially for me. I mingled with Andromeda; I had strange ideas. I was a disappointment to her. But the worst part was: I didn’t care.

I remember when I first went to Hogwarts. My mother was glad to be rid of me, and I won’t pretend the feeling wasn’t mutual. But I was put into Gryffindor. For weeks my mother sent me Howlers during breakfast that shrieked insults at me, and told me how I’d “dishonored the family name.� There it was again, the name. Black. But it didn’t bother me then. Most students cringed when they received Howlers. I laughed. But I had reason to laugh then. I had the Marauders. And I had James.

James Potter – the only name that torments me almost as much as my own. He was more my brother than Regulus ever was. He was from a wizarding family as well, but unlike me, who came from a family of pureblood maniacs, James’s family were what my parents termed “blood traitors�. It was this attitude that we shared that kept us so close. – And our love of trouble, of course, though somehow the humor has gone out of our pranks. It all seems so trivial now. – It was this attitude that made us work for years to become Animagi to help our werewolf friend, Remus.

Remus Lupin – that’s another name that haunts me. I thought he’d turned against us. I believed – blindly, stupidly believed – that he had been enticed by Voldemort’s offers of “equality� for werewolves. As if Remus would ever have cared about such things. How wrong I was, how foolish… and how very Black. It pains me to admit it, hurts me beyond explanation, almost beyond endurance, but it was so like my parents to suspect the “half-breed� first. I lived my whole life trying to disassociate myself from them, and then, when it mattered most, I acted exactly like them. I lived up to my name. I thought I was better than that. I thought I looked at character first. But if I had, I would have known all along the spy was Peter.

Peter Pettigrew – it is this name that keeps me sane and drives me mad at the same time. For it was this name that sprang into my mind when my friends needed my help to ensure their safety. James asked me to be their Secret Keeper, but I told him I had a better idea: Peter. Not because he was extraordinarily talented – though he is much more talented than I ever realized – but because he was such a clever ruse. Voldemort would never dream James would use Peter, would be sure they had used me, would hunt me down instead, only to find he had hunted the wrong man. There was only one thing I had overlooked: Peter was working as a double agent for Voldemort. I should have seen it, of course. Peter always loved power, and Voldemort did indeed seem to be the winning side. James and Remus and I could hardly be good enough protectors anymore. Why didn’t I see it before? Of course hindsight has perfect vision, but I’ll still never understand… because I don’t want to face the truth. I was a Black, and in that one area I acted like it. The one time it was essential I act like Sirius and I acted like a Black. If I hadn’t lived up to my name, James and Lily would still be alive.

Lily Evans Potter – beautiful, kind, spunky, sassy, headstrong, amazing Lily. The only girl James ever loved. A name that drove me mad even when we were at school together. Now it haunts me, as all these old names do. A mother who died to save a son who became a national hero, but whom, I know, she would rather have lived to see grow up. Famous Harry Potter.

Harry Potter, my godson. He’ll never know. They’ll never dare tell him. Imagine someone saying to him, “You’re godfather was a Black.� It would torment him, as the thought of his torment torments me. Torments me because he’ll never know the truth.

I’m innocent. It’s the only thought that keeps me sane. I’m responsible, I won’t deny it, but I’m innocent. I’m here because they think I did it. They think I was James and Lily’s Secret Keeper, that I was a double agent, that I sold them to Voldemort…. That I sold my best friend to Voldemort. And then killed my other friend, Peter Pettigrew. Peter was a clever rat, I’ll give him that. Much cleverer than we ever gave him credit for. He framed me, faked his own death, and disappeared into the sewers with the other rats. Curse me and James for ever helping him become an Animagus! So now the whole world thinks I’m double-crossing, murdering, heartless spy, who sold out his best friend in the world and his family, and murdered his other friend along with twelve Muggles. It would be difficult to believe of me… except I’m a Black.

The name curses me. It’s easy to believe in my guilt when you look at my background, when you realize that half the members of my family are Death Eaters, and all of them purists. I seemed different, but anyone can pretend. They can rationalize my innocence away with only my name. The horrid name that has haunted my steps since childhood. The name that has condemned me to the most guarded cell in Azkaban prison.

Black. Sirius Black. My name is Sirius Black. Sirius Black. Black.