Chapter Text
Orion always found wands to be fascinating. With a mind of their own, they have the greatest judgment of character than any other form of magic. He also found that people focused on the wrong things when it came to wands. The cores, for all their importance, tell the least about a person. It tells what kind of magic can be done by the wand more than it tells about the wizard wielding it. So what if the dragon heartstring is easiest to turn to the dark? It means nothing if the one wielding it simply does not wish to go dark.
Wand woods, lengths, and flexibilities, on the other hand, tell a greater deal about that person. Woods are much more picky about the traits of who wields them. A wizard’s personality size and strength in their beliefs must be represented in the wand’s length and flexibility. Ollivander told the Lord back when he was young and considered pursuing the craft. Now, Orion just uses what he learned to tell the most about the person he’s dealing with.
People can be fooled but wands see you on an almost spiritual level. Take his father and himself, for example. From the outside, people perceive them to be almost the same down to very way they walk. Orion has gotten used to being called his father’s successor in every form. It’s a very good trick they’ve played but one that is revealed in the wands. His father’s wand stands at 14’’ and is solid, showing his natural command of a room and his stubbornness in his beliefs. The cedar wood chose him for his strength of character and loyalty to those he cares for. Ollivander told the young Orion, “I have never yet met the owner of a cedar wand whom I would care to cross, especially if harm is done to those of whom they are fond.” Orion, on the other hand, has a 12½’’, surprisingly swishy wand that showed his average personality and deceivingly soft hold on his beliefs. His wand was made of hazel because of his control and understanding of his own emotions. Their wands show what Orion has trained himself not to show.
The lord looks at the wand in his hands. The hazel wood is naturally a very light colored wood but Ollivander designed the wand in a way befitting of the House of Black. Ollivander always said he designs the wand in the way the components would whisper to him. Sometimes still, Orion wondered if the wands always knew who they would choose, seeing their future in the wielder’s hands. How else would Ollivander have carved the light wood into overlapping raven feathers with the feathers dyed gradually darker toward the end. Orion considered the wand longer before closing it into the thin box before him and placing it back on the window table. He would have to make do without magic for now.
Orion wondered now, in hindsight, why they didn’t use this knowledge of people when dealing in marriage contracts. His father had a strong match with Orion's mother. Pine seeks out the independent, mysterious, and intriguing with long lives. The 11¾’’ wand allowed her to keep more to the shadows and maintain that mystery while the supple flexibility would not clash with his father’s stubbornness. Walburga was not that. While the ebony wood showcased her courage to be herself and her non-conformist personality, the wood also showed her to be steadfast in her beliefs. With this in addition to the rigid flexibility, her wand being 14½’’ made her a dangerous person to have on your arm. She was proud and stubborn, willing to fight Orion all the way.
Orion supposed this was the reason he was poisoned as he was. It was a little fuzzy for him. He remembers silently hating her at family functions because of her superiority complex. He often thought she was barely staying polite enough to Lucretia that Orion did not have to get involved on her behalf. After the start of his third year, he remembers the butterfly wing feeling that he got around her. Even now, he stands confused about his own emotions. The very characteristic that gained him his wand was stolen by that wretched woman.
The worst is that nothing will fix it. Nothing will give back the years he wasted on that woman. Nothing will take back the actions he did when he was under her control. Nothing will fix his relationship with his sons.
So, he sent her away. As far as the Prophet is concerned, Walburga Black has retired to the countryside away from her family while her husband remains Lord Black and his sons receive heir training. Officially, the three moved in with Arcturus to further their studies while Walburga opted to live in a nice cottage in France. The other pureblood families may puzzle out the tension but no one will assume a love potion marriage. Orion will not subject his children to more ridicule, especially not due to the actions of their parents. Orion and Walburga have done enough.
Even now, as he walks the halls of his childhood home, Orion remembers the pain they’ve caused them. Sirius seems to believe it’s not real. He searches for tricks in the very walls of the house, as if Arcturus will jump out and attack them. Sirius keeps himself small and subtly hides in the rooms. Orion wonders if Sirius would hide in his bedroom if he would not get too bored.
Regulus just looks lost mostly, as if the show has gone off script. He seems confused when his grandmother asks him about his day and insists on hearing his literary rantings. Regulus follows his brother more often than not. Orion thinks that if Regulus could become Sirius’ shadow, he would.
Orion so desperately wants to help them. He wants to comfort them and reassure them that Walburga is not coming back but he doesn’t know how. For their entire life, he has been a puppet. He can’t even remember those years clearly. His memories of his sons are like photos piled into a box, moments throughout the years without order or reason. He can’t help them.
Orion reaches his old studio. When his father gifted him this room, he remembered the overwhelming joy. He spent many years here, painting and drawing the world around him. He wonders how much dust has collected in his room or if the elves have been as diligent in here as they have the other rooms. He opens to find two figures standing by his oil paints.
“What are you doing in here?”
Sirius and Regulus whip their heads around to stare at him. “Father!” Sirius exclaims.
“What are you doing in here?” Orion repeats slower.
He wonders if he spoke too coldly as Sirius seems to straighten and put Regulus behind him. “We were just looking around. It’s been here for, like, forever. Who cares about this stuff anyways?”
“I do.” Orion snaps. He knows he shouldn’t speak so coldly. He knows he needs to soften his eyes the way that he wishes to do. He just wants them to drop the small red paintbrush that Orion was gifted when he turned thirteen.
Sirius’ eyes darkened. “Well, we didn’t know that.” He snapped back. He’s gripping the paintbrush in a tight grip that has Orion stepping forward.
“You shouldn’t wander into rooms you know nothing about, Sirius.” He knows he should be looking at his son but he can’t take his eyes off the brush that Sirius is holding far too tightly. “Sirius. Put down the brush.”
He hadn’t seen how wound up Sirius was. “Fine!” Sirius yells as he slams the brush down awkwardly against the cabinet top. The thin wood snaps and the grip on the bristles bends, losing stands. The young heir’s eyes widen before he stands taller and glares at his father.
“Sirius!” Orion bellows and steps closer. He stops at the miniscule flinch he sees in his sons and he pushes the anger down into his stomach. “Get out.” He says, just loud enough to reach their ears.
Sirius was obviously expecting a fight. “What?”
Orion doesn’t look toward his children, just staring at the paintbrush on the cabinet. “I need you to walk away Sirius. You two need to leave.”
“What?” Sirius sputters. “We were here first! You leave!”
Orion refuses to look up. “Sirius. I am not asking. Leave.”
He hears a huff as Sirius grabs his brother and leaves, slamming the door on the way out. Orion is left staring at the paintbrush.
Even before the break, the brush showed its age. The paint on the handle was wearing away and the bristles have been dyed various colors. It was well-used and well-loved. Receiving it was something he remembered happening after Walburga apparently started her admiration potions. It was one of the longest memories he has from that time. Orion could still remember Rosetta Rowle giving him it. Rosetta was a good friend, no matter the red color of her tie.
It was February 7th and he was already dodging admirers who were hoping for a Valentine’s date and who wanted to give him birthday gifts. He'd already received expensive quills, rings, treats, and journals. His parents' gift was sitting in his satchel. He had hoped it would be that nice set of sketching pencils that he has been wanting for a while. His father always seems to know what he was hoping for when it comes to these things.
Orion got caught by a couple of third-year Ravenclaw girls. They wanted to give him some cards and his refusals were not accepted. He was about to hex them just to get away but, just as he was pulling his wand out, Rosetta was there. She scared off the girls with some rumor about a student trying to sneak into the Ravenclaw dorms.
Orion had spent many years trying to keep this moment in his memory, especially since the last moment he held this brush. He remembers Rosetta’s sandy blond hair that she wore in a singular plait over her shoulder. He remembers her light brown satchel hanging from her shoulder. If he thinks hard enough, he thinks she got it in their first year. He remembers her mischievous hazel eyes when they turned to him. He knows that was a common look for the playful witch.
“Get a little cornered, Black?” She teased.
He scoffed as he continued walking down the corridor. “Nothing I couldn’t deal with on my own, Rowle.”
“Sure. Sure. Anyways!” She spun into his peripheral. “I heard it was a certain someone’s birthday!”
Orion looked off to the side. “It’s not that important.”
Rosetta sounded almost offended when she said, “‘Not that important!’ I happen to think birthdays are extremely important, especially one of a friend’s.”
He turned his head to face her once again. Orion can still feel the slight happiness at being called a friend. It didn’t happen often in the Black family or in the Slytherin house. “A friend, am I?”
She smiled her warm smile that he often sees directed at the confused first-years. “Of course! And as a friend, I got you a gift, even if it's a little late notice.” She seemed nervous now.
Orion blinked and resigned himself to another quill or journal. Instead, a set of paintbrushes was thrust in his face. They were all smaller to allow for smaller details in paintings. Each was red or yellow. He looked up at his nervous friend. “Paintbrushes?”
She squirmed a little under his gaze as she explained. “Well, you’ve always gone to sketch the lake and Forbidden Forest. I’ve seen the paint splotches on the sketchbook, too. My cousin paints and he’s always needing those small brushes to do those really nice paintings so I figured you might want a set of those. I wrote to him and he said that these were the best he’s ever used so I bought them for you.”
Orion was unbelievably touched. No one really gave him something that was for him. Most of his gifts from his peers were to Heir Black, things best for future lords or high society. This was one especially for Orion, his interests and hobbies. He reached out to gently accept the brushes. He examined the smoothness of the bristles and the comfort of the grip. They seemed to be worth their apparent reputation. He looked up at the silent Rosetta who was trying to gauge his reaction. He lifted an eyebrow, “Red and yellow? Did you feel like infecting me with Gryffindor?”
Rosetta shook her head firmly. “Why does everyone base their gifts off the color of their house? I mean, we’re not going to be in school forever and when we’re not, all of our stuff is in those colors. It seems kind of tacky to continue that into adulthood too so-”
“Rowle?” Orion chuckled.
She reddened at her rant. “Sorry. I didn’t get them red and yellow because of school. I just thought you would use them even after school so I got you red and yellow because of your family. Your family crest is black, red, and yellow, right?”
Orion was stunned at that thought. Most didn’t even consider that. He hummed an affirmative.
“I can change the color, if you want?” He saw the black walnut wand carved in a corkscrew design with a gem like carving resting behind the grip. She was always good at charms. Now, he knows that her proficiency with that wand marks her as a sincere, self-aware witch.
“No,” Orion said, “I’m quite happy with them, Rosetta.” He left then. He doesn’t remember if that was the last time they interacted. He doesn’t remember if they fought later.
That memory, though, was something Orion held onto despite the years. He was reminded quite suddenly of it a few years after his marriage to Walburga. He wanted to remember that, mostly because he couldn’t forget the other memory.
He had brought those brushes with him to Grimmauld Place. A room on the second floor was converted into a studio where he especially loved to oil paint. He was working on a painting of Ravenswood when Walburga flew in. She complained about a lord doing something so frivolous as painting and how she couldn’t see him being any good at it. He knows now that his acceptance of her words was the amortentia telling him he loved her. Now, he remembers the way her face grew still as she caught sight of the brushes at his side and he feels nearly sick. She started yelling about worthless Gryffindors and stormed to his side. He tried to stop her but she slapped his hands away and knocked his painting over. When it fell, her eyes had this dark, planning look in them. She pushed him away and complained of worthless hobbies and no skill. She picked up the palette knife and stabbed it into the painting. He might have yelled but she moved onto each painting in the room, ruining all of them. She then pulled his side table closer to the fire and threw the wooden palette into it. She made eye contact as she threw every tube of oil paint into the flames. She picked up the stack of brushes and scoffed before they followed the paints.
She left after that, Orion thinks. He was left staring at the flames and holding the last, red paintbrush in his hands. After that, he changed the studio into a guest bedroom. The next time he was by Ravenswood, however, he was able to hide the last treasured paintbrush in his childhood studio, by the oil paints.
The last paintbrush which laid broken before him.