DEAD OR ALIVE ~ a marauders fanfiction

november 1970: scene one

Sirius recounts his first encounter with a phantom.

The first time Sirius Black had ever seen a ghost was when he had just turned eleven years old, for Number 12 Grimmauld Place was the right location for it after all.

With it's cursed artefacts displayed as trophies on the mantelpiece in the living room, and the mist of dark magic that festered in the house's ancient walls, and crawled and seeped into your skin and bones when you stepped through the front door, ghosts in that house seemed... predictable.

Still scary as shit to an eleven year old, though. No matter how exposed to a more sinister side of magic he was.

It wasn't just any old ghost that Sirius saw that day—it was his great, great uncle Phineas. As far as Sirius had been taught by his governess (a rancid old woman that he could not remember the name of now), Phineas was the second family member to be disowned and scorched from the family tree. That lesson, in fact, was what Sirius believed had prompted his little run in with the phantom later that day.

"A filthy, selfish man..." the woman had sneered, for of course Walburga and Orion Black wouldn't hire a woman who supported Phineas'—or any "blood-traitor's"—way of life to teach their precious and pure children. "A Muggle lover with no respect for his family, his bloodline..."

After she had spoke, Regulus asked a stupid question. Oh sweet, clueless, nearly nine-years-old Regulus Black with his timid stutter and light, innocent eyes.

"But w-why was h-he so bad? A-Andy told us that—" Those words were slapped right out of Regulus' mouth, then, as the governess reprimanded his temptation for interruption that he seemed to always have. A sharp sound resounded from her palm due to the silver ring on her finger that left a pink, bloody graze across Regulus' pale cheek and a pool of tears that threatened to fall from his eyes.

So, in turn, Sirius threw the closest book he could find directly at her head. And of course he didn't miss.

He didn't really think about it, for it wasn't exactly a premeditated act, but something in him wanted that woman to leave his home and to never, ever return for treating his brother that way. But unfortunately for Sirius, a weasley little history book on Pureblood politics wasn't going to obliterate the woman into smithereens.

"How dare you!" The governess shouted once she had regained her composure. Snatching his wrist in her cold hand, Sirius was dragged out of the room and into the hallway again (this happened at least twice a week). Regulus was still sat in his seat, frozen like an ice statue. His porcelain hand was still cradling the broken skin on his face.

Like the rest of the house, the hallway was adorned with sickly green and black wallpaper and panels that hadn't been replaced for Merlin knows how long. A shiver ran through Sirius' spine, and he couldn't decide whether it was his house's longstanding chill or the late realisation about where he was being taken.

For the first time in this exchange, Sirius felt his mouth go dry and his confidence dwindle into a flickering flame—all at the sight of his father's sprucewood door. Before he could do anything, the governess knocked.

One knock.

"Such insolent children, both of you. At least one of you knows when to stop." The governess tutted, her grip tightening and probably bruising when Sirius tried to squirm out of it.

Two knocks.

It wasn't like Sirius hadn't visited his father's study before—that was the issue. For the lashings he had experienced previously had always haunted that room each and every time he re-visited, and made each visit just that much worse.

Three knocks—

"Enter." A monotone voice rang suddenly from the other side of the door. The governess opened it and tugged Sirius to stand in front of her. His shoulders rolled back instinctively.

"Mr Black, Sirius has, once again, disrupted my teaching with his disobedience. Throwing books around, to be specific. Not to mention his everlasting ignorance. I felt that you were most suited to deal with him, for I can no longer stand the sight of him."

Sirius had his eyes trained on the ground, but he could practically hear his father's stone cold gaze cutting through the air like a poisonous dagger with a destination only for him as the governess spat on and on and—

"Your judgement was correct, I'll handle him from here." Orion replied. He nodded only slightly, and the governess nodded back, before leaving wordlessly. Leaving Sirius behind to face the blizzard.

After the click of the door closing shut, the two were plunged into a heavy silence, waiting for somebody to drop the ball. Sirius lifted his head to meet his father.

"Father, she—"

Orion lifted but a finger and Sirius silenced himself—just how he'd been taught since the age of three. "Since when have myself or your mother taught you to speak out of turn, Sirius Orion?"

Sirius scowled; he had always hated when his parents used his middle name.

Suddenly, Orion stood from behind his desk to stand in front of his son.

Sirius bowed his head again but Orion snatched it back up and held his son's jaw while he spoke eerily calmly and in a low tone.

"It is in your best interest that we can fix this... behaviour, before September. We'd hate for you to go off to Hogwarts and stain the Black name, wouldn't we?"

Sirius gulped. "We wouldn't, sir."

Orion hummed. He dropped Sirius' jaw and turned around, returning to his armchair and opening a file of numerous parchments and Ministry bills.

"Kreacher!" Orion called.

Within the next second, a slim and wrinkly house elf apparated with a crack beside Orion, wearing a stained rag. Kreacher had worked for the Black family for decades, apparently. Regulus seemed to have a soft spot for him, but according to Sirius, that elf was the most miserable thing he had ever seen.

"Father?" Sirius asked, puzzled.

"It seems that you have forgotten that actions have consequences, Sirius Orion Black." Orion said stiffly. He looked back down at his parchment. "Take him to the cellar, Kreacher." He ordered flippantly without looking back up at neither the elf or his eldest son.

Sirius' brain short circuited. "No, please Father, not the cellar, please—"

"Yes, Master Black." The elf's croaky voice replied before grasping Sirius' arm quickly and apparating once more.

Sirius' stomach lurched as his mind and body warped through the structure of time and the spruce walls of Orion's study blurred and refocused as the cold, iron-bar walls of the dark, lonely cellar.

And just as Kreacher had apparated him inside, the elf quickly apparated back out again without even a second disapproving scowl in Sirius' direction.

Then, along with his rapid heartbeat and clammy hands, Sirius was left alone.

Or was he?