He'd made his bed, alright, the very moment he'd agreed to let Peter Pettigrew take the position that should have been his. He'd have died before he'd betrayed James and Lily, no matter what they'd done to him. They could have tortured him to insanity with the Cruciatus curse, and he still wouldn't have broken. Not ever.
Blacks were loyal to their families, deliriously slow. And James and Lily Potter had been his only real family for years.
"Yeah, I wasn't a member of the family at that point," he shrugged. "I got blasted. Mum and dad wiped their hands of me. So when I betrayed my best friend and his wife to Voldemort, and then blasted a friend into pieces, there wasn't any defense for me to speak of."
He took another drink, his eyes cold and filled with memories that were still too near.