It's not particularly good news to give, he knows. Harry's alive, which is incredible, yes, and the best that he can give them, but he knows that, the best that he can offer, which really is hardly anything at all. He wishes terribly that he could give them more, that he could offer.. something.

But they want to know what happened, and Sirius doesn't know where to start. How to begin. There's just so var much. His eyes drop away, distant and thoughtful, until James' fingers are under his chin, tugging him back up, and Sirius' eyes flash toward him, and then Lily, almost guiltily.

"I was gone," he finally says, listlessly, with a shallow shrug. "Locked up. I couldn't take care of him." Sirius' voice is quiet and hollow. Framed or not, Sirius will never stop feeling guilty for failing them, for failing Harry; they'd named him godfather, but the title had proved to be all but useless, hadn't it? What had he done for Harry? He'd been gone from the boy's life for twelve long years, and even after he hadn't been able to look after him, had encouraged him to be reckless, vented his dark moods on him, then gone and gotten himself killed, taken away. Briefly, his gaze flickers again toward Lily. "He lived with your sister."