Chapter Text
“Keep quiet,” Orion hissed. “And do as I say.”
“Why?” Sirius asked. He didn’t look at his father, he kept his eyes firmly planted on the dinner table, looking at the swirls and dots on the polished wood. He knew he shouldn’t question it; he would always get the same answer.
It is your duty as the Black heir to carry our name to something respectable. It is your duty to carry on to greatness. You can’t waste your time running around with Regulus. Read your books, sit up straight. Keep quiet and do not question it.
“Because it is your duty,” Orion said sharply. “You know this Sirius.”
Sirius swallowed hard, still not looking up. It is your duty. That was just it, wasn’t it? He didn’t have a choice, another opportunity, he just had to be. Be the Black heir, carry the name, stand up tall and pretend to care. Be bigger, older than he was, pretend to know everything when he was only ten years old and all he wanted was to play Exploding Snap with Regulus. His whole life he’d been raised as the heir, learning which fork was used for eating salad and which spoon was used for soups, forced to keep his head high and back straight even though he had invisible but painful bruises and cuts from when he’d failed to be perfect. The polished, picture perfect heir, but never Sirius. He was another piece in a never ending puzzle, another knot along the line, Sirius Orion Black the Third, the heir. Never a child, never a son. Never Sirius.
“Don’t you, Sirius?” Orion said. He didn’t ask, he stated it - a rhetorical question. “You know what you’re supposed to do, don’t you? You know your duty?”
Sirius bit his cheek and straightened his back, hands splayed over his thighs, aching to fiddle and tap, make a noise in the otherwise quiet dining room. He took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“And what is that?”
“To carry on, keep the Black name respectable—” And feared. Sirius’ fingers twitched. “Carry on with our… Legacy.”
Legacy. It sounded stupid. It sounded bigger than what their family was. Their family wasn’t great—it was wretched, twisted and foul. Their family was boring dinners and long meetings about complicated laws Sirius didn’t understand. Their family was respected out of fear, great because no one else stepped in the way. But Sirius didn’t question it. His father said that it was supposed to be this way, and even if Sirius didn’t want to comply, even if he wanted to run around the house and have fun, he listened. Because it was supposed to be this way, no matter how twisted and foul. Sitting up straight was supposed to hurt, reading book after book was normal, bruises and cuts and yells were merely means of discipline.
You’re difficult, Sirius. His mother often said. You don’t listen, you don’t stay quiet—Silencio—nor do you sit still—Incarcerous—we have to do this. So you’ll listen, and do as you’re told.
It rang in his ears constantly, repeating like a mantra. Stay quiet and do as you’re told. He didn’t want it, but he had to. It was supposed to be this way. The faint scars on his back were supposed to be there, his parents’ words were supposed to repeat, over and over until they sunk in. Until Sirius listened.
“Good,” Orion said. He put his arm on Sirius’ shoulder, then pushed a stack of books towards him. “Now tell me, what are the dangers of half-breeds?”
Sirius wanted to say no, he wanted to get up and leave and play with Regulus and have Kreacher make them chocolate eclairs, but he straightened his back and began reciting the useless words that he had burned in at the top of his brain.
Later that evening, Sirius and his father stood in one of the many halls of the Ministry of Magic, right outside of the Wizengamot. Orion had his hand firmly planted on Sirius’ shoulder, a hand that said don’t you dare do anything bad now. Sirius wanted to sigh, he wanted to go home, but this was important. He had to see how things were done, even though he didn’t want to.
Sirius wasn’t even quite sure what this ‘important meeting’ was about, he never was. He usually just sat in the hall where the meetings were held, only half listening to what was being said as he tried not to squirm too much in his seat. He was always uncomfortable in these meetings—people always looked at him with something else in their eyes that they tried to push down, admiration, fear, pity. And he hated it all. Sirius didn’t want to be admired or feared, and he definitely didn’t want to be pitied. It was supposed to be this way, he knew that. There was no need to pity him for something that was normal. His cousins went through the same thing. Sure, they were older, but Cissy and Bella weren’t even heirs and they went through the exact same thing as Sirius. Sit up straight, listen, be punished if they didn’t.
Sirius didn’t know what his cousins thought about it, though. He knew that he hated it, he knew that he wanted to be something else, someone else, but he never told anyone. Maybe his cousins were the exact same as him. Maybe the reluctance was normal.
Sirius let out a quiet sigh and decided not to think about it, about anything at all. The doors to the meeting hall had opened, so he didn’t have time to think about it, he had to sit up straight and make sure that he looked good next to his father. He had to look like his father was doing a fantastic job at raising him and taking care of him, with his hair forcibly slicked back with potions and spells to tame his curls, with his expensive and fitted robes. He had to look like the picture perfect, polished heir that he was supposed to be.
Sirius watched as his father spoke, not listening to the words he said. Orion leaned forward, crossing his arms over the wooden table in front of him but somehow keeping his back straight, and Sirius did the same. He didn’t quite reach up to the table with his arms, but he had to do something, his fingers were itching and his legs were restless and he couldn’t sit still, and if Orion could lean forward, then so could Sirius. He felt eyes on him, someone even smiled in his direction, and Sirius wondered why. Why he was sitting there, why he was so important and why people were looking at him, and not at the bearded wizard at the front, or at the woman with the unruly brown hair who was currently speaking.
After the meeting, Orion was holding onto Sirius’ hand, and Sirius knew that it wasn’t a protective hand, it wasn’t a fatherly hand. It was a don’t leave kind of hand, keeping him in check. The same hand, always lying heavy on Sirius’ shoulder, keeping him still. Sirius was staring down at his shoes, scruffing his toes against the uneven stone floor as Orion spoke to a Lestrange or Rosier or someone else important that Sirius should know but didn’t bother with memorising.
The woman from the meeting—the one with the unruly hair—approached them, a faint smile tugging on her lips, “Oh Mr. Black,” the woman said. “Is this little Sirius? He looks just like you! So adorable!”
Orion smiled at her, a foul and twisted fake smile that looked more like a sneer. Sirius looked up at his father. He knew that he looked like him, black hair slicked back, expensive robes, neutral expression, polished and picture perfect. Sirius quickly looked down at his shoes again. “Thank you, Madame Flint,” Orion said, tightening his grip on Sirius’ hand as a way to tell him that he was supposed to say something as well.
Sirius straightened his back and looked up at the woman—Madame Flint—before giving her the most charming smile he could muster. “Yes, thank you, Madame.”
“Oh, well behaved as well!” she cooed, as if Sirius was a well-trained dog or a five year old, and not a ten year old who probably knew more about magical laws than she did. For some reason, Sirius wanted to sneer, for some reason, he was irritated with this woman. He didn’t even know where the stupid thoughts and the sneers came from, because he didn’t want to be respected or ‘mighty’, at the same time as he thought ‘I am a Black and you should respect me, not treat me like a house dog.’ Sirius’ lips curled, forming the sneer he wanted to keep down, and the woman’s smile faded.
“Yes,” Orion said before Sirius could even think of defending himself in some way. “Very well behaved, but we must be leaving. Dinner is probably getting plated up as we speak.”
“Of course,” Madame Flint said, giving another small smile, though it didn't look as bright and sincere this time.
Orion tugged at Sirius’ hand, signalling for him to follow to one of the Apparition points. Sirius followed, but not without shooting another sneer in the direction of Madame Flint. They walked slowly, and Sirius still held his head high, even though he wanted to crawl into bed and just stop going to these meetings and stop caring, at the same time as he cared too much. He was so confused, not even understanding his thoughts half of the time. Sometimes, he wanted to be what his parents wanted of him; to be respected, hold his head high and just power through everything, hoping that it would get better, somehow, some day. But most of the time, he was just tired; tired of the bruises and the yelling and the reading and he just wanted to be a kid , but he didn’t know how to just break free. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was stuck.
He felt the dizzying, tugging feeling of being Apparated and suddenly Sirius and his father were standing in the hallway of Number 12 Grimmauld place. Orion let go of his hand as if Sirius was something venomous and he couldn’t help the pang that went through his chest. It was cold in the house and it smelled of Kreacher’s surprisingly good cooking. Sirius swallowed hard and shed his cloak and shoes despite the cold house; shivering was better than yelling. He waited for his father to go into the kitchen, then he followed and sat down next to Regulus by the table. Regulus smiled at them both, bouncing in his seat before seemingly remembering that it’s not appropriate to bounce in his seat, and he stilled. Back straight, slicked back hair, looking more like their mother than Sirius. Softer.
“Was the meeting good? Successful?” Walburga asked, more out of habit than actual care. She held out her plate to Kreacher, who levitated beef stew and rice onto her plate. Sirius frowned, he liked potatoes more than rice, but he didn't dare to say anything about it.
“It was fine,” Orion said shortly before turning to Sirius. “You, however, need to learn your manners.” Sirius’ back straightened, and he kept his eyes firmly on his plate. “Sneering at members of the Wizengamot,” Orion continued, his voice disbelieving, tone condescending.
“She disrespected me,” Sirius said, suddenly looking up at his father. “I am not a house dog, Father, and I don’t want to be treated as one.” He hated the words that came out of his mouth. They tasted bitter and sour and wrong, but he kept his eyes on the slicked back and slightly receding hairline of his father, steely, cold and as stern as he could muster. His mother was surprisingly, quiet, and when Sirius allowed his eyes to flicker over to her, he didn’t see disappointment or anger written over her face, but pride, and suddenly his mouth tasted more bitter than before. His eyes flickered back to Orion and saw the same thing. Buried underneath the layers of steely cold, the frustration and anger, was a glint of pride, and Sirius suddenly hated everything a bit more.
The kitchen was eerily quiet, Sirius staring down Orion down until he exhaled heavily and gave a small, but sincere smile that somehow looked twisted and foul no matter what. He held his plate out to Kreacher, then said, “No, you are not, Sirius.”
Sirius slumped down a little in his seat and stared down at his plate, which levitated off the table, then floated back a few seconds later, filled with Kreacher’s stew and potatoes.
Sirius had always liked Regulus’ room better than his own, but he never knew why. It didn’t seem to be as cold and miserable as his own, even though it was decorated with the same greens and silvers and mahogany wood, it felt brighter, more hopeful, and Sirius spent as much time in there as possible. He didn’t know why, exactly, but he was always drawn to Regulus in a way. They were brothers, so they must’ve had a bond between them, but Sirius had seen how his cousins acted around each other and they didn’t seem to be even remotely as close as Sirius and Regulus were. Perhaps Sirius was drawn to the innocence Regulus still had, the imagination and hopefulness still prominent, not yet touched by their parents. He wasn’t the steely cold glares from their father or the loud screaming from their mother; he was warm. Regulus was what made Grimmauld home.
They were there now, in Regulus’ much warmer room, the old and battered Chess set stood abandoned next to them after Sirius had lost four rounds in a row and decided that the game was stupid and unnecessary. He was much better at Exploding Snap anyways. Regulus had replaced the chess-playing with a piece of parchment, and he was laying on his stomach, quill scratching away at the rough surface as he sketched… something. Sirius sat opposite of him, legs crossed under tailored robes. He was picking at his cuticles, just enjoying the presence of his brother, the feeling of love.
“Do you think they have a piano at Hogwarts?” Regulus asked, his quill wiggling furiously in his hand when he filled in something on the parchment. Sirius stopped picking at his cuticles and shrugged.
“I’unno, probably.” He peered over his brother’s arm, trying to catch a glimpse of the drawing. “What are you drawing?”
“A map,” Regulus replied. “Andy, Bella and Cissy are the worst at explaining Hogwarts, so I’m drawing it.”
“Oh?” Sirius scooted closer, looking down at the parchment. It was messy, with ink smudges and blotches here and there, but it was good. Annoyingly good. It was a picture of a room, with large sofas and armchairs, fluffy pillows they never saw in Grimmauld, full of detailed portraits and statues. It was sketched in ink, as that was the only thing their parents allowed them, but Sirius could almost imagine it filled with colours and life. It was unbelievable seeing how Regulus was only eight and could barely hold a quill in their joint classroom without Walburga berating him and saying that he held it wrong, but in the privacy of his own room he had created a masterpiece.
“It’s the Slytherin common room,” Regulus said, and as soon as he’d said it, Sirius could imagine the greens and silvers he’d seen on Cissy and Andy’s robes. He could see the important Purebloods he’d met during dinners with the Sacred 28, he could see life .
“It’s good, Reg.” Sirius ruffled his brother’s hair, unsticking it from the spells and potions keeping it down. Regulus tried to draw away, but he was grinning.
“Thank you,” he said. “Will you tell me about it when you go?”
Sirius bit his lip, thinking for a split second that he probably wouldn’t be allowed to spend time on feeding something that was merely an interest and not something important , but he shook the thought out of his head and smiled at Regulus. “Of course.”
The first thing Sirius notices is that it’s warm. Warm and comfortable, and not cold and clammy like it usually is in his home. He cracks an eye open, and he’s immediately met with the golden sun rays streaming through his window. He doesn’t feel cold and clammy, he’s not scared of getting out of bed. He feels happy. A smile spreads across his face and he sits up, and all of a sudden he’s sitting by the dinner table. Dread washes over him, but then he realises that it’s still warm, the lightning is still yellow and his family is laughing. They’re not mock-laughing either, they look genuinely happy. Sirius smiles and his mother turns to him. She’s smiling, an actual warm smile, one that reaches her eyes and causes them to glitter. She looks pleasant like that, Sirius thinks, when she’s not guarded or angry or stern. She looks alive.
Walburga reaches over the table and puts her hand on Sirius’ and for the first time it’s not cold. It’s warm and the touch feels so caring, in a way.
“Go on,” she says. “You can leave now, Sirius. It’s okay.”
Sirius’ eyes widen, and suddenly his chest feels even warmer. “Really?”
“You’re free.”
Sirius smiles as he stands up and he walks out of the kitchen, towards the front door and out on the street. Suddenly everything goes cold and grey. Birds are screeching and dogs are barking and Sirius is shivering and and he feels so small, terrified . He feels something grip his shoulder, sharp talons, digging in and pulling him back. Pulling and pulling and pulling into more darkness and even colder rooms and he hears the manic laugh from his mother, he feels the disapproving glare from his father. The grip on his shoulder hurts so much and he’s just going backwards, backwards.
“How dare you—,” his mother begins in a high pitched shriek, one that hurts his ears and makes him want to curl up into himself.
“You’re not going anywhere,” his father says, cutting his mother off. “Now sit up straight and do as we say.”
Sirius woke up with a jolt, sweat clinging to his hair and tears rolling down his cheeks. He couldn’t breathe, and he swore he could still feel the talons digging into his shoulder, pulling and pulling, forcing him to stay even though he didn’t want to.
You’re not going anywhere.