Counting Sheep

0. Prologue

Sirius Black

December 12th, 1967

In Number 12, Grimmauld Place sat two boys, one man, and one woman.

The clink of utensils and tableware was the only audible noise emitting from the dining room. The looming ceiling and encasing walls, which were plastered with dark, neutral tones of swirling wallpaper, created an air of tension; the diamond chandelier hanging above was the only source of light, and even it seemed to shine duller than one would expect. The gloomy atmosphere matched the thundering, biting weather outside, the pour of the rain penetrating through the silence.

The single dark mahogany table in the center was bordered by the four individuals aforementioned, with the man at the head, the woman to his left, and the two boys sitting opposite to her, slightly apart from each other. It was clear that they were a family: the man's dark waves were reflected in the hair of the two boys, and the woman's pale complexion similarly mirrored itself in the boys' sharp, aristocratic features (features that were slightly softened by their young age).

It was thirteen minutes into dinner, and not a single word had been uttered by any of the occupants at the table since the beginning.

Eight-year-old Sirius Black stared down at his beef stroganoff, contemplating his next move. He tugged at the collar of his suit, shifting in discomfort at its tightness. He knew that once dinner hit the fifteen-minute mark, his father, Orion Black, would gruffly break the silence by bringing up some news he had heard from business colleagues, either about politics or those with "filthy blood," to Sirius's mother, Walburga Black, and the two would tersely converse about it for roughly a minute before relapsing into brief silence again. Then, Walburga would address either Sirius or his younger brother, Regulus, asking her chosen victim what his opinion on the previously discussed topic was.

It was a daily test, though not explicitly labeled so, and the reply Walburga acquired would determine whether the responder received a curt nod of approval or painful retribution, often inflicted after dinner by Orion.

To Sirius's left, six-year-old Regulus chewed on his oyster meat, silent and meek. His dark, short-cropped hair was neatly gelled back against his head as opposed to Sirius's purposefully messy waves, which were long and had a calculated windswept quality to them.

Regulus wasn't fidgeting with his clothing, and he had never been on the receiving end of Walburga's latter course of action to her daily tests.

Sirius couldn't say the same for himself.

"Abraxas mentioned that there have been numerous anonymous complaints filed against that Mudblood on the Wizengamot, Tobbins." Orion brought his wine glass to his lips, glancing over at his wife to catch her reaction.

Walburga pursed her lips. "Well, that does not matter if he winds up still remaining on the Wizengamot, does it? No matter how many faux complaints Abraxas orchestrates against the Mudblood, it will not result in removal of membership when Albus Dumbledore is Chief Warlock." At her own mention of Dumbledore, an ugly sneer crossed over Walburga's face, contorting her sharp, hawk-like features into a rather unattractive expression.

"Luckily, Abraxas happens to be on good terms with the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—Bradford Snote, if you recall. The two were prefects together during their time at Hogwarts, and Snote happens to owe Abraxas a favor after Abraxas got him out of a tight spot during his beginning years at the Ministry." Orion snapped his fingers, and a wrinkled house-elf dressed in gray rags appeared next to his chair, hunched over and with a bottle of wine in its hands. The elf bowed low and refilled Orion's now-empty wine glass, disappearing just as quickly as it came.