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“Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.”
― Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
Like Cooling Lava, Like Dripping Ash
When Sirius Black was 14, he started smoking. Remus came back from a summer in the majestic world of Muggles with his long legs and a nicotine addiction and Sirius was hooked. He would spend dwindling evenings with his back pressed against the hard, dirty stone of the astronomy tower and his shoulder pressed just the slightest bit against Remus’, head tilted back dramatically so he could gaze at the constellations, blowing wisps of smoke into the cold November air.
When Sirius Black was 15, his father caught him smoking Muggle cigarettes out the cracked window of his childhood bedroom. He grabbed the cigarette right out of his son’s mouth, yanked the collar of his shirt down, and burned him with the lit tip right on his clavicle. Three little diagonal dots. Orion’s belt.
When Sirius Black was 16, he tumbled into James Potter’s living room in blood-streaked robes, his long hair matted with a sickening red. He wasn’t conscious to hear the screams, but he can imagine them. He can picture the horror on the Potters’ faces, the disbelief battling with pity, the stifling panic suddenly clouding the balmy July breeze, making the previous carefree peace float away like cigarette smoke lost to the wind.
He’s suspicious at first. Everything is too good here.
He thinks of all the extravagant balls his parents throw, all the expensive presents the signature eagle owls had delivered to him for his birthdays, all the rumors of grandiosity and lavishness and power that had trickled by his ears over the years. How perfect his own family would seem from the outside.
He’d asked Remus once. They’d been in third year, right after the Christmas break, and Remus had regaled them all in the common room one night with a story of his dad finding out he’d cheated on a test once when he was nine years old. He’d described the shock of his dad, the embarrassment of himself, and the hidden humor of his mother, who’d somehow already known what he’d done. Sirius had peeled back the other boy’s velvet curtains that night, eyes oddly desperate.
“What did he do?” he’d whispered.
“What did who do?” Remus mumbled back, half asleep.
“Your father. When he found out. You said he was angry.”
“Oh, um, I don’t know. I remember him yelling for a long time about integrity and strength of character and stuff. He probably took away my books for a bit too. There was this series I used to be so obsessed with…”
Sirius had stopped listening.
Cheating on a test from his private tutor at nine years old would’ve earned him a backhand at least, with his father’s signet ring – intended to one day be passed onto him – cutting into the delicate flesh of his cheek, still thick with baby fat. At most, he would have gotten his first taste of his father’s wand slicing into his back, his cries muffled by the wrist he’d shoved into his mouth, not quite ready to lose his dignity along with his innocence. Luckily for him, that didn’t come until he was ten.
That conversation with Remus was when Sirius had first understood. Remus’ father would yell and temporarily confiscate possessions. A lecture and some prolonged boredom. Nothing too extreme. Peter once mentioned that his parents would occasionally fine him money for large indiscretions. Definitely annoying, but manageable, especially for someone from a wealthy pureblood family that most definitely provided a monthly allowance. Lily said her mother’s specialty was the silent treatment. Lonely, for sure. Isolating. But there was always a conversation when it was over. Sometimes even an apology. Some sort of reassurance.
His own father hit and sliced and broke. Sirius paid with pain and humiliation and the all-consuming numbness that descended like a heavy fog for weeks and weeks afterwards. His whole world was hazy, leaving him kicking frantically at the mist like a child trying to escape confining blankets in the overbearing summer heat. Insurmountable. Unsurvivable.
The Potters don’t even raise their voices.
It’s three weeks after he gracelessly passes out in their living room that he finally snaps.
Euphemia had healed the physical wounds so kindly, rubbing an unbruised patch of his arm soothingly as the inhuman whimpers and screams bounced off the thick walls of Potter Manor while his skin knitted itself back together and his bones fused like cooling lava, all smooth lines and magic fixes that felt unbearably incongruent with the mental gashes still left gaping in his psyche.
Sirius had been casting silencing charms over the slightly-too-pillowy, slightly-too-small bed in his new room each night to cover up those. No use disturbing everyone else with a solutionless problem. Besides, what was a little more haze in the grand scheme of things?
But now it had been three weeks, and Euphemia was still kind and the nightmares were still raging and the Potters still didn’t hit or yell or isolate.
He’s arguing with James about something unimportant. He’s not really upset – neither of them are – but sometimes the bickering is fun. A sort of release.
“It’s dark brown,” Sirius asserts.
“It’s black,” James insists.
“No, my hair is black. Yours is just a deep, deep brunette.”
“What? No! I have my dad’s hair and it’s black. I guarantee you.”
“Your dad has brown hair, James.”
“That’s – that’s – no!” James’ eyes are bulging slightly.
Sirius laughs. Yeah, this is fun. It’s familiar. Easy.
“You can’t just claim a monopoly on black hair, Sirius.”
“Why not? I was here first.”
“By four months!” His pupils are noticeably bulging now.
“Well what does your mom say?”
“She says it’s black!”
“Hmm.” Sirius pretends to ponder this, a look of mock consideration coming over his face.
“Why would my own mother lie to me, Sirius?!”
Too easy.
It’s like flicking a switch. Black turns to red.
Sirius’ head whips up sharply, features dropping into a snarl.
“My mother would.”
It’s glass slicing his tongue, ash scorching his teeth, venom dripping down his chin.
James immediately looks alarmed, leaning instinctively back at the raised voice directed towards him, the sudden drastic shift in demeanor.
Sirius knows James didn't mean it that way, knows that James has been so careful lately, avoiding any triggering topics in conversation, approaching Sirius slowly and always subtly asking for permission to touch him with a questioning brow or a slight head tilt.
But Sirius doesn't want James’ imposed fragility right now. No, right now, he wants to push and push and push until something breaks.
He wouldn’t even mind if it was himself.
“You think you know everything because she cares about you?”
“Sirius, we were just joking around –”
“Yeah, real funny. You have parents that like you and I have ones that beat me senseless. How’s the view from that high horse, James?”
James is love and light and stability and Sirius can feel the lump building in his throat, trying to stop the scathing words before they can escape to hurt the other boy, but they still slip through, unbidden. He’s not mad at James. He’s not mad at James’ parents. He’s not even mad at his own parents. But he is mad, and it’s leaking out now, pooling in grotesque circles on the carpeted floor of the Potter’s living room.
James leans forward again, confusion and hurt playing on his face.
“I’m not saying anything like that, Sirius. I’d never say anything like that. I’m just glad you’re here now, that you’re safe. You shouldn’t have to live in fear.” His eyes are caring, but his tone is firm. “You should be with people who love you.”
It burns, like a million constellations melting his skin.
And then he’s on his feet and his fingers are curling up and his fist is raising and his knuckles are crashing into James’ nose and his best friend’s slippery blood is staining the wrinkles of his skin.
“My parents love me, James,” he hisses.
James clutches at his nose, trying to catch the blood in his hands as it drips down.
James stares at Sirius, eyes disbelieving, mouth slightly agape.
James breathes shakily, tiny gasps escaping every now and then.
James does not hit him back.
***
Love is a complicated thing. Intangible, untethered, inexplicable.
Once when Sirius was seven years old, his mother locked him in a wardrobe for four hours. It felt like a millennium to Sirius who, at the time, was unused to this punishment and was also, unfortunately, scared of the dark. He was a sniffling, snotty mess by the end of it, his tailbone aching from sitting still in the tight space for so long.
But at the end of the four hours, she let him out. He sat at the table with his parents and his brother and he ate dinner, and then dessert, and then flew his miniature broom around in the garden.
She let him out and he ate dinner and he played outside. And she always let him out, every time. It might last hours, or one time even days, but she always let him out eventually.
And that was love.
It had to be.
***
James hadn’t hit him back. Fleamont had heard the crash, had rushed in to see his son bleeding and Sirius shaking out his punching hand, and had told Sirius in an eerily calm voice to go to his room. Orion usually preferred the study, but Sirius supposes a bedroom is as good a place as any for a father to draw his wand. Or perhaps Fleamont would do things the Muggle way. Belt to back.
Probably not, though. James doesn’t have any scars. Not that James would ever give his parents a reason to hit him, being as kind and thoughtful and genuine as he is.
Sirius sits up straight on the red and gold duvet-covered bed, his hands inching subconsciously backwards to grasp each other behind his back, his shoulders lowering into a proper posture so he’ll be ready to rise to his feet and assume the standard position when greeting Mr. or Mrs. Potter.
Maybe they don’t even hit at all. Maybe they like to use that organ squeezing spell that Walburga once used on Alphard. Or maybe they prefer a choking hex, like the kind Andromeda got the night she left. Hell, maybe they'll even Crucio him again.
He’s sure the Potters are nice people. A person as confident and cocky and self-assured, and deeply, deeply loving, as James couldn’t possibly come from a cruel family.
But Sirius Black is not a Potter. Sirius Black is a guest, who likely just broke the nose of their pride and joy.
And Sirius knows that if there’s one thing that truly separates the Blacks and the Potters after all the politics and ideology and social castes wash away, it’s that the Potters will always protect their son.
Sirius’ eyes trace the rectangular outlines of the Muggle music posters on the wall of the guest room in which he currently resides, the ones Euphemia had bought for him after encouraging him to decorate the space “as he likes.”
His clothes feel too tight and his palms are itchy and he swears the marks on his collarbone are burning once again, rebranding themselves onto the delicate skin.
He feels awful to have hit James, to have caused the person who is love and light and stability such pain, to have seen the betrayal in his best friend’s eyes.
But it feels good to deserve the punishment this time.
It feels validating to prove to the perfect Potters that they're not actually that perfect. That the right button just needs to be pushed for them to crack and become just as horribly human as everyone else.
It feels triumphant to show them that their gentle touches and caring glances and soft-spoken words won't work. That you can't fix something that was built broken.
That you can't love someone who was born unloveable.
There’s a knock at the door. Sirius springs to his feet. He’s unfamiliar with the disciplinary protocol here, but 16 years in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black has taught him that silence is a safer answer.
After a few moments of quiet, the door opens, and Fleamont and Euphemia stand in the doorway, eyes tired. Fleamont’s face is impassive, but Euphemia has a slight pained smile on hers that makes the wrinkle lines around her mouth stand out.
Sirius lowers his eyes.
James’ parents enter the room slowly, Fleamont pulling the desk chair in front of the bed and sinking down into it. Euphemia perches on the bed itself, leaving enough room for Sirius to sit next to her, which is what she asks of him next.
“Why don’t you sit down, dear?”
It feels wrong, but he does it anyway.
“Can I see your hand, please?”
He can’t see her wand anywhere. His eyes flick to Fleamont, but he’s wandless, too. There is a dark brown belt fastened around his khakis. Gold buckle. Solid. Heavy.
“Sirius?” Euphemia prompts. It’s quiet, a genuine question.
He breathes in once, holds it for as long as he dares, and swallows the oxygen down into his stomach. He places his punching hand into Euphemia’s waiting ones.
She pulls a wand from her boot.
He doesn’t mean to, but his hand pulls back sharply, the oxygen he’d swallowed puffing back out through his throat in a gasp.
Euphemia freezes.
“Sirius.” It’s Fleamont’s deep tone this time. Sirius knows he should look over at the man who’s addressing him, but his stubborn gaze won’t leave Euphemia’s hand, still clutching the wooden wand.
“Sirius.” Fleamont’s voice is still eerily calm. “She’s just going to heal your knuckles.”
The marks are definitely burning. They’re burning and scorching and melting and incinerating him.
He shakes his head.
“No?” Fleamont asks.
“No.” His voice is hollow, lifeless. They’re surrounding him.
“Okay,” Euphemia agrees. “I’ll just put this away then.” She tucks the wand back into her boot. “I’m not going to take it out again, okay dear? I promise.”
Why would my own mother lie to me?
“Okay.”
The silence returns for a while, punctuated only by Sirius’ futile attempts to get his heart rate under control.
“Sirius.” This time he does look at Fleamont. “We need to talk. But that’s all we’re going to do, just talk. Do you think you can do that?” Another genuine question.
He just nods, already failing at the task.
“Okay. James said you were joking around. That he said something that hurt you, without realizing it. Is that correct so far?”
No.
“Yes.”
Don’t talk back.
“You and James can talk later. I’m sure he’ll want to apologize, as will you.”
Can they see the flames climbing up his neck? The ashes dripping down his collar?
“James said that he tried to calm you down a bit, but that you punched him.” Fleamont states everything in that calm, slow voice, not letting any emotions cloud his tone. “He also said that he didn’t think you meant it. That he knows you’d never intentionally hurt him.”
Smoke from the fire is billowing around the room and Sirius has to hold his breath to stop from coughing and choking on the fumes.
“Effie and I agree with James about that. We don’t believe you intended to hurt him.”
“I punched him,” Sirius whispers back through the haze. “He was bleeding.”
Fleamont sighs lightly.
“Let me clarify. You did hit him, and you did hurt him, and that was very, very wrong of you. Violence is never the answer.” Fleamont pauses to let Sirius nod, showing he understands. “And we will have another conversation about that in the future. Without wands ,” he hastens to add. “But I don’t believe it was James you intended to hurt, was it?”
No .
He doesn’t respond.
“I expect it’s pretty confusing, pretty disorienting to have your life changed so drastically all in one night,” Euphemia picks up the conversation. “You must have a lot of strong feelings – both good and bad and bittersweet – all swirling around in your head right now.”
She always let me out. Every time.
“We’re here whenever you need to talk. And I don’t expect you to trust us right away, even if you have known us for many years now. You’ve known us as James’ parents, not yours. But I do expect you to come to us, or to James as well, when those feelings become overwhelming.”
The smoke in the room has begun leaching out the windows now, slowly being replaced with the warm July air. The throbbing in Sirius’ collarbone lessens.
“Is there anything you’d like to talk about now, dear?”
No .
He breathes in, holds it for as long as he dares, and lets it slip back out past his lips, into the clearing air.
Yes.
“Can I smoke in here?”
Euphemia looks momentarily surprised, but covers it well.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
“What if I do anyway?”
He subconsciously pulls his collar up a bit higher on his neck.
Euphemia tilts her head slightly to one side, a soft smile gracing her lips.
“I’d ask you to give me your cigarettes. We’d sit down together and I’d explain the dangers of nicotine and tobacco and their negative health effects. I’d offer you some alternative coping mechanisms for when you’re stressed or bored. I’d ask you not to smoke while you’re under my care. And next year, when you’re of age, I’d trust you to make the right decision about whether or not you’ll pick up the habit again.”
“And if I don’t make the right decision?”
Euphemia takes a moment, considers this. She shares a glance with Fleamont, a second of silent agreement.
“I’d ask you to explain your choice. We’d sit down together and you’d tell me why you feel that’s the right decision for you. And I might disapprove, and I might remind you of the health dangers, but it is ultimately your choice. And no matter what, it would not change how I care for you, Sirius.”
“You’re ours now, love,” Fleamont echoes. “And we intend to do right by you.”
“I would, of course, worry more,” Euphemia adds, a mischievous glint in her eyes that finally keys Sirius into where James gets his from. “Probably get more grey hairs and worry lines on my forehead…”
Sirius’ lips twitch and he smiles tentatively.
The air is fresh, his skin is cool, his mind is calm.
And he finally understands.
The Blacks hit. The Lupins yell. The Pettigrews fine. The Evanses silence. And the Potters?
The Potters talk.