Chapter Text
The bright ivory of the table runner stood in stark contrast to the darkly stained and polished mahogany table. Candle sticks shone silver all down the length, surrounded by crystal glasses and gleaming ceramic dishes. Orion Black sat at the head of the table, with his wife Walburga to his right and his oldest son Sirius to his left. His youngest son, Regulus, sat on the other side of Mrs. Black. The rest of the table was filled with various extended family members, all of whom were dressed in very formal blacks and the darkest greens and blues. Plates, fully ornamented with only the finest dishes, were set in front of every seat, and yet only the smallest bites were taken at a time, interspersed with tiny sips from the glasses of wine accompanying them. Tchaikovsky was playing very quietly in the background (Mrs. Black’s favorite pureblood composer), and this was the only sound for a while besides the tinkling of silverware on plates and the occasional throat-clearing. This part of dinner was always Sirius’ favorite. The part where no one was talking, and they all sat with their mouths shut. He didn’t like his family very much; he thought that they were rude and overly polite. But of course, he would never say that. It was sure to upset Mother, and Mother did not like to be upset. Instead, he took his little victories where he could find them, such as the quiet time before anyone began the adult conversation.
After the dinner, which was just as boring and irritating as ever, Sirius sat at the desk in the corner of his room, practising his lettering. An hour every night before bed on his lettering, and then another hour at the piano; that had been expected of him every day for as long as he could remember. Mornings had a bit more variety, as his mother took him with her about her business, but even that was boring after the first few houses they visited.
Once his hour was up he carefully stowed away all of his things: the ink well closed tightly, put in the left-hand top drawer, his quill at a perfect 40 degree angle in its holder next to his books, and his papers in a very neat stack, laid on the top shelf of his desk for Mother’s inspection in the morning. Then he threw himself onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling, where the dark green latticework weaved its way from wall to wall. Dark green, the house of Slytherin, the one Hogwarts house that his whole family was placed into. His mother had been talking to him about it quite a bit lately, making sure he knew what people he was to talk to, where everything was, and what teachers he needed to avoid. ‘Slughorn used to be an honorable man,’ she had told him once, last week, ‘but he’s fallen somewhat lately. I hear he’s let mudbloods into that little club of his in the last year. No, you’ll have nothing to do with that club, even if he offers it to you. Do you understand?’ He had told her ‘yes of course, Mother, I wouldn’t in a million years, Mother’, and yet some small part of him was intrigued despite himself. He wondered what all of the other houses were like, having heard so much about the one he was destined for. Was he really going to meet dozens of people who had grown up as muggles? He never had before. Were they going to be as detestable as his Mother described? He thought it more likely than not; shivers ran down her spine whenever she mentioned them, he had seen it. But what made them so? What fundamental difference was there? Well, he would find out, apparently.
He was excited, really… and yet.
His mind wandered back to dinner. It had been Conversation Time, and the adults had been talking about some new man in power at the ministry. Their Aunt Druella has made a passing comment to the effect of ‘all of the Hughley family now has been run through the gutter’, and Sirius had stilled. His eyes darted to Regulus, shooting warning glances; they were ignored.
‘My best friend is a Hughley!’ he had said happily. ‘But his brother just got taken up to Scotland for a “termible illness”, whatever that is.’ No one at the table had moved, until sent him quietly to wash up and go to bed. For a split second his mouth dropped open as he realized his mistake, but a quick look at her had him whispering, ‘yes, Mother’, and making his way up the stairs. Dinner had continued normally after that, but his Mother followed him up the stairs after seeing everyone out, and turned at Regulus’ room. There was nothing Sirius could do once she was upset, of course, but he always snuck into Reg’s room afterwards and cheered him up. What would happen once Sirius left, and there was no one to go be with him after something happened? He was still too young to recognise all the things that crossed the line, and to keep ahead of Mother’s upsets. Would things get worse if Sirius wasn’t there to mediate or distract, as he sometimes did if the offence was small enough?
It felt selfish to leave, if he were being honest with himself. But he had to go, and Reg was only a year younger than him. Just one year, and then they would be at Hogwarts together, in the same house, and away from whatever icy mood their parents got into.
… Not all that bad truly. At least, that was what he told himself as he fluffed his pillows and curled up on his side, trying his best to fall asleep.
“We’re going to Diagon Alley today,” his mother told him the next morning, after checking over his lettering. “I don’t want the place crowded while we get your things, so we may as well go early.”
“I haven’t even gotten my letter yet,” he observed, careful not to sound critical.
“No matter,” her response was clipped and detached. That was her usual tone.
And so they got their things together and left the house, arriving in Diagon Alley less than a minute later; Mother was all business.
She swept them through their shopping, pulling things from this shelf and that, and Sirius wondered how she knew what he needed by heart; but of course he didn’t ask. He merely followed her through, watching as she handed him his robes. They were a very rich black, the inside lined in green silk and small snakes embroidered around the cuffs.
“Do all kids know what house they’ll be sorted into before they go?” He asked. His mother glanced at him.
“No,” She said. “Only the Black family is good enough for that.”
“Of course.”
He followed her quietly throughout the rest of the trip, imagining what it must be like to not know where you would live at Hogwarts, and what people you would be with. It must be very frightening, he decided. He was glad to have the assurance that he did. At the same time, though, he mused, running his hand across a bannister as they passed, family conformity was inevitable after he was put in Slytherin. It would be the end of any hope he may have had about not becoming a rude, connivingly polite Black family member. Not that it bothered him too much; there was little hope of that in the first place.
Once they got home Sirius found a heavy parchment letter laying on their dining table, his name written in a sweeping script on the front.
“Mother!” He called, forgetting himself for a moment in his excitement. She turned sharply around, fixing him with a dead stare.
“Do not raise your voice in this house, child. You embarrass yourself.”
Sirius’ face burned red, and he brought his hands back down to his sides.
“Yes, Mother. I apologize.”
“Good,” she said. She glanced down to the letter in his hand. “Don’t be excited. Admittance to Hogwarts is only proof of your basic human worth. Emotion does not suit a Black.”
He nodded, his ears still hot, as she walked off down the hallway and left him to his devices. The letter tucked under his arm, he walked as quickly up to his room as he could without making any noise.
Dear Mr. Black,
The letter read.
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
There were other pages with it, listing the things that he needed and so on and so forth, but his mother had already gotten his things and they were of little interest to him. Term begins on 1 September.
Three months away.
Just three.
Sirius sat up all that night, reading the letter over and over again. He neglected his writing and his piano, and he knew he’d regret it in the morning. But it wasn’t the morning yet, and the tiny paragraph on the parchment occupied his entire mind.