Ever heard of the game Two Truths and a Lie? Well I'm going to give you two lies and a truth. You get to guess which is which.

1. I am a Klingon warrior hovering around Earth and right now I can see you at your computer. Yes, you, in the Barney pajamas.

2. I have a cucumber growing out of my head.

3. I do not own Sirius Black or anyone else from the Potterverse. Terribly sad, I know.

Were you able to guess which one was true?

Do you know something? I secretly enjoy the fame. I always wanted to be famous, did I tell you? Maybe not infamous, no, well-known. Got what I wanted didn't I? Remus was right when he said I'd do anything for attention. Ah, dear, dear Remus and dear, dear Tonks with their dear, dear litter on the way. Oh my, did I just make a werewolf joke? How terribly gauche of me. I must do that more often. And maybe I do resent him a little bit. Just because he can walk down the street without getting those looks. Oh I know what you're thinking. But Sirius, they cleared your name didn't they? Sure they did. They didn't have a choice after all that's happened. Sure they cleared my name. But that doesn't stop the looks. The looks that say, "Yes, they let you go, but I wouldn't have." You can't stop people from thinking. Just like there are still some wizards who stubbornly refuse to believe Voldemort ever came back, that Dumbledore was raving mad; they still think I killed those people. That I'm a murderer.

And they're half right, aren't they? We killed. We all killed. Maybe Harry most of all; and yet, maybe Harry least of all. Harry. We're so alike. I asked him once if he ever wished it had been Neville that Voldemort had singled out. If he could have traded places, would he? He thought about it for a long time, but do you know what he said? Do you know what the boy said? He said, "No." He enjoys it too, the fame, secretly. I know he does. Who wouldn't? First he was famous for something he neither remembered nor could he explain. He was The Boy Who Lived. Now he's not only that, but The Boy Who Saved the Whole Bloody World.

I won't pretend we didn't have losses. No one can. It would be asinine to think that you can fight a war and not get hurt. Dumbledore was probably the hardest to lose, well, for me. Remus has said it; Hagrid has said it; Harry has said it and I can only echo them. A great man, Dumbledore. Possibly the greatest.

Fred was the next hardest to lose. Of course, if you ask Molly, her opinion will differ. And it has every right to. He was her son. I wasn't there when it happened and so I'll never know exactly, but from my understanding he was with Charlie, protecting Ginny. I'll weasel the details out of Charlie or Harry someday, but for now, it's still too fresh.

But Sirius, I can hear you thinking, the war has been over for nearly a year! And yes, it has. But it's still too fresh. You, you who merely read about it in the newspapers -which, I might add, didn't even give Fred and Charlie their names. Two Aurors, I believe it said- you don't feel it. I don't even feel it, not the full extent. Fred reminded me of me, only a happier, younger me. I admired his and George's ambition. It was something I wish I had possessed. I do miss him as a friend. But still, he was not my son. He belonged to Molly and Arthur, and now their only comfort is that he went quickly. It is, I know, a cold comfort.

He belonged to George, too, in a sense. They were two halves of one dynamo. George doesn't laugh now. He didn't even crack a smile until a month or two ago. I doubt he'll ever prank anyone again. I know that people are resilient; they bounce back. But not this time. It was too close a cut. And it hurts us all, all of us but me. I don't have the energy to hurt anymore. I'm too tired. I'm far too tired. I don't even get out of the house anymore. It's odd; afew years ago I would have given anything to be able to get out of this damned place. Now that I can, I don't. I like being famous, but I wish it was for something different. But it's alright. I usually have company.

On the bright side, little Jean has given up scuttling across the floor for the wobbly toddling of learning to walk. Much to the relief of all, he doesn't seem to be exhibiting any abnormalities, other than those that come from being born a wizard. Everyone was a little anxious to see how having a father in Bill's condition would play out, but as far as the Healers at St. Mungo's (and another hospital Fleur's family insisted on having him checked at) are concerned, he's a happy little baby boy who is quickly becoming not a baby. As for Bill, he's as he ever was. He didn't ever come off as vain to me, so I don't think the loss of his looks was as much a blow to him as it was to Molly. But I've said this before and I'm sure I'll find myself saying it again; he is her son.

Speaking of Weasley sons, have you seen Percy by any chance? I only ask because we haven't. Not since the Christmas of Harry's sixth year. Arthur said they'd been owling back and forth for about a month after the war ended, but the owls stopped. Arthur said he'd said something about "unfinished business" and didn't get anything further. Molly's cheerily confident he'll turn up for supper one day. Some of us aren't so sure.

As to Harry's best friends, well, what can I say? Harry thinks the world of Ron and Hermione. I only wish I knew if they felt the same. They've been rather wrapped up in each other recently. Harry tells me. We commiserate over pudding leftovers late at night. I know how he feels. One of my best friends,-well, my only best friend left I suppose- has become rather stuck on my cousin. I'm happy for them, really I am, but they're moving on. I can't help but be stuck in the past.

Bitter, you say? Sure. But why shouldn't I be? I had what should have been the best years of my life ripped from me. Do you know what the Ministry gave me in return for that? A written pardon. A lousy piece of paper in exchange for twelve of the most miserable years of my life. I framed it; it's hanging over the fireplace in the library now. I see it as a testimony to why you can't rely on justice to come to you. You have to go find it. But I guess that's the way it is with everything. Except fame. That came right up to me, shook my hand, and booted me squarely in the backside. But I secretly enjoy it, the fame. Did I ever tell you?