a sirius black fanfiction.
written by jude.
✿ ✿ ✿
THERE'S A REASON Irene Peverell loves roses.
They're beautiful — the ones her mother grows in the garden bloom every summer, without fail, their soft petals shades of red and pink and yellow. Everyone admires them, the way that their fragile, frail stems shoot towards the sky. Irene knows that people want to pick them, take them away and watch them shrivel and die, until they're no longer pretty, and they're tossed away. That's the fate of most beautiful things. But roses aren't defenceless. Their thorns are like tiny knives, cutting open the skin of anyone who might dare to hurt them. At her family's funeral, Irene grips the roses she's to lay on their graves so hard that the thorns cut into the flesh of her palm, and the stems snap, and her fingers are stained red as blood from the petals.
The Peverell children were roses, their parents' pride, about to bloom and leave their mark on the world. And now they're six feet underground, and it's just Irene.
(She supposes not just her, but even the thought of her half-brother makes her feel sick to her stomach, an unfortunate side effect of the fact that Hector Peverell, eldest son, golden pure-blood boy, is now in Azkaban for arson and murder.)
Irene likes to do things by the book — she excels at Arithmancy, and History of Magic, but only because those are the things she knows. They're rooted in fact, immovable. Everything else is jarring and confusing — like creatures that move and shriek and feel in Care of Magical Creatures, or the ever-changing night sky in Astronomy. But this — her family murdered by her brother's hand — is decidedly unprecedented. Moreover, Irene's not entirely sure how to grieve. Especially when she still talks to her family, every night, with the aid of a family heirloom that lets her see their shades.
The Potters — Irene's closest living (read: sane) relatives, distant though they might be — take her into their home, which poses a number of problems. Namely:
1) James Potter keeps calling her dearest cousin, despite the fact that they're not cousins, and it's messing with her head.
2) Godric's Hollow, while idyllic and lovely, is suffocating, and if Irene has to hear sympathies from one of the elderly residents on more time, she swears that she'll—
. . . smile kindly and thank them. She's not her brother, after all.
But not being like Hector is exhausting, too. The fear of becoming as twisted as him consumes her. Irene's been told that she's soft — not iron-willed like her elder sister, not a leader like the youngest of her brothers, not even stubborn like her youngest sister. But this year, Irene decides that she's done being soft. No petals. Just thorns.