Work Text:
At Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, in London, on a dreary evening in 1962, Sirius Castor Black stood on his tippy-toes in his Whizzbang! Little Wizard shoes, precariously balanced on his daddy’s toes, clutching the bars of his little brother’s crib with his face mashed up against them. Regulus Arcturus Black was five months old and fast asleep beneath a thin sheet. His little mouth was open, tongue moving between toothless gums as he dreamt of suckling on a bottle. One tiny hand was thrown up by his head, fingers curled in a fist that clenched and loosened rhythmically.
“This,” Orion Arcturus Black murmured, watching his sons, “is what it means to be a Black. This is what is important, Sirius. This. Him. Your little brother, and all of the Blacks who will come after him.”
Orion’s head was heavy on Sirius’ head, petting his black hair. Sirius remained silent for once, barely daring to breathe, sensing that this was important. He was just over two years old, and this night was being indelibly seared into his memory.
“One day, you will lead this family. It will be your job, your duty, to protect everyone who bears the Black name. To protect him. That is your duty, Sirius. That, above everything else, is your sacred responsibility.”
Sirius risked freeing one hand from the bars and stretched his arm through. He ran his finger over Regulus’ tiny fist, and Regulus opened his hand and closed it around Sirius’ finger. Sleepy silver eyes blinked open, struggling to focus in the dark room.
“I’ll p’tect him,” Sirius whispered to his daddy. “Always an’ always.”