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Remus told him once that the largest problem he had was that he couldn't see past James Potter's image. "Harry’s his own person," the Werewolf said in an exasperated voice. "He's nothing like James."
Sirius had protested. Of course he knew that. How could he not? "Harry has Lily's eyes," he pointed out.
"It has nothing to do with James nor Lily, Sirius," Remus replied gently.
And Sirius had mumbled, "That’s the problem," before leaving his puzzled friend.
The problem was that James and Lily were the perfect couple and brought into the world their perfect son: black hair eternally dishevelled by the wind, tanned skin that still turned pale red when blushing or exposed to the sun too long, green eyes that watched Sirius too long, frown creases that begged to be soothed, and a smile that could never be denied anything.
The problem was when Sirius held his hand, he would fight every urge to caress it; he would idly wonder how those long legs—and growing longer still—would feel wrapped around his waist. And wonder how the neck would arch when tipped back, how the skin that was so intimately not James' nor Lily's would taste with his tongue.
The problem was trying to actively protect someone so needing of protection, but was so encased in anger that one could hardly breathe. Sirius would wonder the one-million-and-one ways that the boy would smile, and would smile at him alone. He would wonder with an ache in his heart how he would want to soothe the anger and pain that marred the boy's still so young face.
The problem was in trying not to hope. Of a future. Of togetherness. Of hands clasped within his own.
Remus said, "Harry is his own person."
That was the problem. He would never be Sirius Black's.