"I am not afraid of fire;
it was fire who taught me how to swim."
-via L.T. Phoenix
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12 Grimmauld Place, Late January 1971
He had done it. Sirius Orion Black had finally done it.
Of course, he'd 'done it' about six times since the Black's annual Christmas banquet. Now that he had the time to think about it, he'd 'done' the impeccable 'it' since he found himself mobile. One must define mobile, and Sirius considered the ripe ability to spite Walburger and her oafish husband, the Onion, as such.
Now, this entailed creeping out of his baby crib deep in the morning to chew on Daddy's unique quills or, maybe, ripping what little clothing their faithful house-elf, Kreacher (the despicable little thing), had left. Though Sirius was older and a great deal smarter, he came to regret that latter decision. Watching the thing roam about the house with his raggedy, crowned jewels dangling mere centimeters above the cloth was much more frightening than any Black relative would ever be to Sirius.
Only because his mother had an unhealthy attachment to the sewer rat, a good spanking was for her oldest son. As stated in far too many lectures, this was to demonstrate 'the principles of being a courteous, young man' to his younger brother, Regulus, who couldn't spell courteous, let alone tell the difference between 'principle' and 'principal.'
It was no secret that Sirius was, in fact, a young God in many aspects, and Reggie would be the first one in line to defend such a controversial statement. Nevertheless, Sirius lived for two things: to be bold and to ensure that Walburga went to bed every night with a growing hernia that would no sooner burst.
This time, what had finally done it, according to the kitchen wench of a woman, was the Doxies Sirius had 'come upon' on their trip to the filthy Diagon Alley. It was an honest mistake, really, or so he'd convinced himself. How could Sirius resist the temptation of a practical joke or two when his parents were much too occupied in buying more potions materials rather than supervise their problem child; indeed, the fault was there. Perhaps if Orion, the simpleton, had trimmed the tarantula thoraxes nesting on his brow bone, he would've noticed the simple slip of the hand and the pocket full of Doxie's entering the threshold of Grimmauld Place.
Much to the young boys' amusement, Kreacher had nearly been mauled to hysteria by a rancid, rather peeved, Doxy. Its body, small in comparison, practically burrowed into Kreacher's long, broad nose; the house, which had been quiet most of the filled with shrill, horrified shouts from Kreacher and petrified screams from the woman of the house. Sirius was accustomed to the latter; a quiet moment was rare in the household, especially if his mother decided it was punishment day.
Blame it on her poor, frazzled nerves, or maybe on the sentiments alongside coddling a house-elf, but Walburga pitched a fit. In all of his years of mischief, Sirius had never seen his mother such a vivid shade of red before. Spit ran down his chin as he muffled the laughter; her eyes bulged from her obtuse skull, looking a comical at best. The boy suggested a bit of elbow grease to remove the Doxy, while his mother suggested a thicker belt to remove the stupidity that plagued his mind. All of this served as reparations for raising such a chaotic child that proved to be the bane of her—yada yada.
Those weren't the exact words; Sirius had heard bits and pieces of the speech and slapped it all together in his rendition. Time and time again, he'd heard it. From what he'd managed to gather, he was shameful, humiliating, dishonorable, foolish, hebetudinous (he had to look that one up), obtuse – the list went on and on, and, as time marched onward, he realized most of them had been synonyms, to begin with.
Sirius' only saving grace from pure boredom and misdirected rage was the arrival of his Hogwart's letter that summer. Whether he wanted to socialize with all of the half-breeds roaming about the castle, he was sure of two things. The first was that the only means of surviving past twelve would be his virtually guaranteed Slytherin placement. It was a given by that point, was it not? The Black family was infamous for their sorting—predominantly, if not universally, Slytherin. Take into account his dashing good looks, cunning, and ambition? It was in the bag.
If on the off chance the Sorting Hat had ingested some mild altering potion and placed him in Hufflepuff, Walburga would beat him within an inch of his life, maiming his fingers to the point where holding a wand would be a luxury; then there would be no need for schooling.
The second thing had been that his time away from home would serve as a vacation of sorts. No doubt, he would miss Reggie dearly, and the letters would come pouring in on the daily, but he wouldn't miss the house. He wouldn't miss the winding hallways, the dreary décor, or the must that seemed to follow Kreacher wherever he went. He wouldn't miss the chilly bathroom or the marble tub—not one bit. Sirius could give a jot less about learning much of anything; his tutor made sure to teach him the basics at an early age. No, this was a chance to live on the edge finally, and what better people to do such things with that his fellow pure-blooded Slytherins?
He didn't mean that Avery bloke with the flaring nostrils or his obnoxious cousin, Narcissa, who insisted everyone, of all ages and propriety, call her 'Cissy.' Those two, and their families, could swallow a fist full of gravel and jump in the River Thames for all Sirius cared. He hadn't a clue what the other students would be like; would they be intelligent and witty? Conniving and slimy? Warm and a bit on the dull side, but great to copy essays from? Sirius didn't mingle much with boys his age. The possibilities were endless.
The morning of his departure, Sirius examined his reflection. His robes were steamed and crisp to the touch; the Ancient and Noble House of Black's crest stamped proudly over the left breast. It looked a bit tacky to him, similar to the way symbols on dinner plates were not acceptable to any sensible young man with taste. The serpent winding around the letters felt heavy on his skin; his fingers ached to remove it. All in due time, he reminded himself, as he pushed back his growing, raven hair with trembling fingers.
To say that he was nervous was silly because he was, in fact, quite confident in his abilities. Abilities in what categories, he wondered, well the list went on and on.
But Sirius was different. He felt different. Surely feelings warranted more than just physical appearances and first impressions. Why did he give a jot what anyone thought of him anyway? Sirius Black was not supposed to feel. He was birthed and raised to represent and honor the Ancient and Noble –
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," he mumbled.
He just couldn't put it out there again, but it echoed in his chest.
Represent and honor whatever it was his family stood for at this point. Pure-blooded ancestry, inbreeding, prejudice against anything that so much as breathed differently from those descending from aristocratic lineage – the Blacks stood for many things. Dark Arts, Dark Magic, Pure-Bloods, Ancient, Noble, infamy, and honor. But where is the distinction in anything Walburga Black had taught him so far?
Of course, some of it had to be reasonable, yes?
For instance, take Werewolves. Bloody disgusting creatures they were; killers. Cold-blooded killers. They did nothing but pillage and took from wizards and muggles alike. It didn't matter what you owned, who you were, what blood ran through your veins – a Werewolf looks at you as dinner no matter what. They had no feelings, no course of thought (ha, similar to the Ancient and Noble – ah forget it, if he said it one more time, he might sever his tongue).
Any dark creature, creatures that stood for blood and death, deserved the hatred they received. They deserved that fate.
But what about those who are bitten, not born, a small voice in a small, one that he'd done a successful job at ignoring for several years, betrayed his resolve. It made a fair point; however appropriate a point may be coming from voices inside your head, he might add. What about those who were human at first? Who had tasted sanity and life, to begin with? What about the young wizards with their life ahead of them, with hopes and dreams just like Sirius? What about children – such as those who Greyback saw fit to attack. What about them?
Sirius remembered something his mother had once said, "They've done something to deserve such a horrid fate. Now shut your mouth and eat your food before it gets cold, ungrateful brat."
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Kings Cross Station, September 1st, 1971
It came as no surprise to Sirius that Walburga showed no signs of maternal affection as she bid him a quick and curt goodbye. He knew that there would be no sweet kisses all over his face, gentle hugs, or nudges of reassurance. It wasn't odd when she'd hardly touched him with a ten-foot pole with a bit of shit at the end since he could crawl, expecting it now would be foolish. The Black family does not show signs of emotional affection, let alone physical affection. Unless, of course, it was aimed at Regulus, but he was a tyke, so it was fundamentally different. Besides, all the hugging and sniffling on the platform was unseemly and far to imprudent.
Why should today have been any different? If anything, using that little bit of reasoning he'd seemed to have swallowed whole as a child, today would be a day to show all of these 'blood-traitors' and 'muggle-lovers' who was the boss.
There was a disgusted scoff from beside him, his mother wiping her nose dutifully with her handkerchief, "Potters. I'd know that mess of hair all the way from the Black Library. Muggle-lovers, they are, Regulus."
Sirius snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye at the family she'd been speaking of. The name sounded familiar, like one of the families discussed over a cuppa or, maybe, a dinner table tangent about the downward spiral of blood purity. His mother was right; you could tell a Potter by his hair, and this one, no doubt, clearly had never been introduced to a brush a day in his life.
No taller than Sirius, the boy was tanned with wild, black hair ruffled in all directions, a pair of glasses drooping dangerously low on his nose. He looked, albeit, much like his father, though he favored his mother's olive complexion. They had the same boyish smiles, eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. Sirius could recognize that twinkle from anywhere. He'd seen it in his reflection every so often.
His mother fussed at his robes, removing what had appeared to be a dung bomb from the right and a handful of Hiccough Sweets from the other. The Potter boy, obviously not feeling very sorry, managed to pull a believable 'I didn't mean to do it' face. Either his mother gave him the benefit of the doubt, or, and Sirius thought this was much more tangible, she'd been through this ordeal enough to know that she'd never tamed the boy and could only do so much before he acts on his own devices. She attempted to smooth the mass of curls atop his head, to no avail, settling to kiss his forehead sweetly.
Something tugged in Sirius's chest, a feeling entirely foreign to him yet oddly recognizable. It was a lurching into darkness as if a string was pulling absolutely nothing, yet everything at once. Suddenly, Sirius became hyperaware of everyone—a small plump boy with blonde hair and a mousy nose getting fussed over, a girl with bright red hair squeeze her father till his eyeball popped out of his skull; even down to a boy who was far too tall for his age with long arms and robes too big pulling his parents into a vice grip, Sirius was so sure passed as comforting. The string snapped, and it all fell into his stomach, shamefully.
Walburga snapped him out of his reverie with a swat across the side of the head. "Did you hear me, Sirius?"
"I had the misfortune of missing the important information you relayed, Mother," he droned, almost robotically. She huffed heatedly, wiping her hand off as if she'd touched something with a contagious disease. Sirius was tempted to do the same but preferred not to be thrashed in front of his peers.
"I shouldn't have to say this so often, but I expect nothing but proficiency from you," she growled, ignoring the looks of fascination, or perhaps fear, her murmuring was receiving. "You know where you belong, and you know what you must do when you get there. Top marks are the only acceptable ticket home, am I making myself clear?"
"When do you not," Sirius mumbled as she walked away with Regulus, not granting the brothers a chance at goodbye.
Sirius mouthed a heartfelt 'I'll write to you,' which was only granted a toothless, apologetic smile. Not yet nine, the smaller boy managed a short wave before being jerked through the brick entrance from which they came. Sirius found himself watching the space where their bodies had just been, hoping, if by some miracle, his brother would pop through, even if only for a second, and give him one of those meek hugs he could muster. Sirius always had to pretend that the little one was close to breaking his back; still worked well for the ego. One of those hugs, much to Sirius's chagrin, was needed right about now.
However, he wouldn't get it, and that was fine by him. He didn't need Walburga. Hell, he didn't want her. He'd make friends wherever he was sorted (as he was almost positive he would be placed in Slytherin). He denied being placed in any other ruddy excuse of a house. Who in Merlin's name would want to be anywhere else anyway? Gryffindor's were all as dense as a cinderblock with the dashed hopes of making 15 minutes of history, and Ravenclaw had three fingers pressed against their prostates at all times lest they make less than sufficient marks on simple discussion assignments. Don't even get Sirius started on the dull and lifeless hive that made up Hufflepuff.
As he boarded the train, he came behind the Potter boy. It would be easy to follow Walburga's orders, ignore the boy, and shun him for his 'muggle-loving' tendencies. But that, of course, would have been far too easy for someone like Sirius. It would have been far too easy and much too obedient. Boys like him were born to get a ride out of Walburga. At least if he was going to be disowned, he goes out in style. Honestly, one must live up to the expectations of being the bane of one's existence.
He hurried behind him, quick to catch him before slipping into an empty compartment, "Oi! I saw you earlier with the dung bombs and the sweets. Don't tell me your mum scraped you clean?"
There was a devilish grin on Potter's face as he looked over his shoulder, "Why would you think that?"
Sirius gave a huff. "Well, I saw her take them from you."
The boys entered a compartment with a single occupant, as their conversation, however brief, had lost them an empty area. It was nearing the time for the train to leave, and the aisles were crowding. The boy on the far side of the compartment, out of reach from prying eyes, was curled in a loose ball, head resting against the wall as he laid in a restless sleep. Neither of the boys had much noticed him.
"But," Potter smirked, "did you see her hand them over to my father who, in turn, as it is his rightful duty to his son, handed them over to me?"
And, with a dramatic flourish to rival even Sirius, a stash of pranking supplies materialized in front of his eyes. It wasn't only limited to Hiccough Sweets and dung bombs. There were those, Stink Pellets, Sugar Quills, and a single, lone Nose-Biting teacup. I
t was magnificent. It was glorious. It was the opportunity of a lifetime screaming in his shocked face. Sirius was practically moved to tears! He could only imagine the uses of some of these pranks. He could see it now, sitting down with Professor Dumbledore only to have his nose chewed on by a teacup.
"James."
Sirius was broken out of his trance by the Potter boy across from him who had the same visions dancing around in his head. It was fate; they both considered it. It had to have been more than just coincidence. And so, with a gratifying smile on his face, Sirius extended his hand to grasp Potter's – James's.
"I'm Sirius," he stated proudly. "Sirius Black." James stared for a moment, head cocked slightly in interest.
"You mean the same Black as the Most Ancient –"
"Please," Sirius whined dramatically, which James enjoyed, "if I hear it one more time, I think I might just roll over and die."
"Sod off," James snickered, gathering his things and slipping them back in his bag.
Just as he did, a portly little boy, round and short, came up to the door with a timid, nearly nonexistent, smile on his face. His blonde hair was cut smoothly, and it laid neatly on the top of his head. Sirius got the inkling that this child would be the first to begin balding after graduation. It's all about genetics. His clothing, clearly Muggle, was nice and pressed. Sirius and James looked at each other with youthful grins.
"M-may I sit in here... with... with you all," he stuttered, clearly nervous about being stuck in front of two, if not three, intimidating boys who were, by comparison, much larger than he was.
Maybe not in wideness, but, even as he had been curled up, the boy in the corner was rather large, even if a bit on the skinny side. Oh, maybe this hadn't been a good idea at all. The compartment looked so empty at first until he saw the sleeping figure.
"Of course, of course," Sirius chorused.
He moved aside, allowing room for the heavy boy to make his way through awkwardly. He huffed, taking the seat next to James. For a moment, the three boys eyed the largest one in the corner. Still, he slept, or he pretended to sleep for the sake of everyone else. Sirius wondered who on earth could sleep on a day such as this when an entirely new world was about to be introduced to them in a matter of hours, and new ideas and images would be presented to them. Who in the bloody hell would sleep on a day like this? Well, it was his loss. James seemed quite amenable, and, if anything, the chubby one was amusing.
"I'm Peter P-Pettigrew," he chirped, seeming to relax when the verbal onslaught did not ensue after he sat down.
Sirius laid back in his seat, lounging gracefully as only a Black could do. James slumped in his chair, clearly not worried, yet again, about how low his glasses were falling.
"James Potter."
"Sirius Black."
James frowned when Peter did not scoot to the edge of his seat upon learning their names; even Black was a prominent name in wizarding society. Anyone who was someone knew who the Blacks were. He eyed him suspiciously before looking over at Sirius.
"We're not quite sure who the mysterious brute is over there, but I'm sure he's quite agreeable when awake," James commented roughly, adjusting his glasses so they were better situated.
Finally, thought Sirius. It was driving him up a damn wall.
The train jerked with a start, setting off towards Hogwarts at incredible speeds, eventually. The three boys quickly became accustomed to each other's company and, without much struggle at all, they'd bonded; Sirius and James more so than with Peter at all. This was simply because the small one seemed to nod and smile with them, hopping on whatever bandwagon they'd been pulling. Half-blood was written all over him, thought Sirius mildly.
But what does that matter, said the small voice in the back of his mind. You know, for someone who was supposed to be working very hard at not being at all like a Black, he sure was thinking like one.
The ever-expanding Scottish landscape soon replaced the rolling hills of England. Sirius, soon bored with whatever it was the pair had been talking about, watched as nature whizzed past them. Unbothered, unmoving, but forever changing, he thought. It was mid-September, and, soon, autumn would be threatening the grassy slopes. Grass would quickly die, blossoms would wither, and chilled breezes would wash out the heat. So, for now, he thought, he might as well enjoy what little of the outdoors he could experience.
Walburga never let him outside of the house unless it was for formal events or shopping. Those were the only reasons he needed to go out. Blacks did not possess friends; they maintained connections. They were not pleasant people, at least they weren't supposed to be, and they made sure that everything came down to business. There was never time to dawdle, chit chat, or catch up unless you'd been someone like Narcissa, who's brain capacity could only carry a conversation so far without malfunctioning.
Being outside of the city, outside of the House of Black, felt like the most pleasurable punch to the gut he could experience. It was beautiful – the world was beautiful. It wasn't separated like he was taught. He was almost positive that he saw it the same way as Peter had or James or, if he ever woke up, the sleeping boy next to him would.
The grass was still thick and green, possibly wet with morning dew. The trees would still ruffle in the wind as the summer air whips through the plains. The sky would always stretch and stretch until it clashed with the ground, creating a lovely skyline. Yes. It was beautiful. And it was a pity he'd lived his whole life believing otherwise.
"...a bit strange. I mean, who sleeps on their first ride to Hogwarts," Peter muttered. Sirius's consciousness faded back into the conversation, eyes merely glancing at the other boys.
"His luggage," James pointed to the rack above them with a curious stare. "It says –"
"R.J. Lupin," the body beside Sirius suddenly breathed with life, stirring beneath all the robes that had nearly swallowed him whole. He sat up straight now, head turning from side to side to work the cricks out of his neck. Tawny hair fell over his forehead, down his neck, reaching to just above his shoulder. It would seem, now that Sirius noticed it, three out of four of them were sporting the 'rebellious long-hair' phase at the moment. "I'm sorry. I was a bit preoccupied during – er – introductions." He forced a smile. If Sirius caught it correctly, and he was almost sure he did, it looked almost painful. "Remus John Lupin."
James, who would appear to be a bit more apprehensive with Lupin than he had with Sirius, merely nodded when he spoke, "James Potter."
"Wonderful to meet you," Remus smiled kindly at James, either unaware or ignoring the gruffness he'd displayed.
Of course, Peter followed his lead with an impassive nod, or what could have passed for impassive. Sirius thought it looked more like an epileptic spasm. "Peter Pettigrew."
"A pleasure," he nodded back.
And then golden eyes laid upon Sirius, calm and expectant. They hadn't gazed at him with immodest curiosity or indiscreet fear. There was no hint of malice or wariness in the relaxed muscles over his face. The only abnormality that this boy beside him possessed was the physical appearance of death warmed up. He was pale, dark half-moons ringing his eyes and bloodshot eyes. It looked, to Sirius, as though he needed more than this train ride to rest up.
He realized, then, that it was his turn to speak. "Sirius Black."
"Pleasure to meet your—"
"Why are you so," James began, curiosity now taking a new strange form. He eyed Remus as if he were something under a microscope for a moment, something to be picked apart and examined before being labeled precisely. Sirius, though he wanted to do this as well, refrained. James waved his hand the air theatrically, clearly preening in Remus's naïve interest. "What's the word?"
Peter was the one who spoke first, "Uptight."
Sirius shot a glare, for some reason or another, at the portly boy, but he didn't seem to care too much because James had nodded in agreement, and that suited him well enough. Sirius crossed his arms in his seat, shaking his head and rolling his eyes with a forced grin.
"Forgive them, Remus," Sirius glowered at the pair across from him. "It is quite apparent that they either lack the mannerisms us commoners obtained at a kindergarten level, or they're too stupid to tell what they are even if they danced the Boogie Woogie in front of them in a tutu."
Remus's nervous laughter filled the compartment. Though shy and timid as it was, a bit more forceful than Peter's had been earlier, it was quite an excellent sound. It wasn't airy and daft sounding (like Cissy), but it wasn't forced into genuineness (such as Walburga when eating out with her sisters). No, this laughter reminded Sirius of something much closer to home than he'd wanted to leave buried back there.
"That's quite a load of codswallop," James interjected, feigning anger and an air of disrespect. "Who are you to call yourself a commoner? You were probably fed with a silver spoon till you were ten by your house-elves!"
Another nervous chuckle rolled from Remus's lips when he said, "I will say I've never had the pleasure of being fed with stainless steel cutlery, let alone silver."
Sirius's eyebrows furrowed together tightly, and he crossed his arms together harshly. It became evident, soon after he ceased contributing to the conversation, that he was pouting. Who were they to judge him? He was, after all, trying to be more like them, was he not? He could have very easily ignored Potter and went to find a more suitable compartment. He didn't have to speak to him. Not at all!
"Even if that's true," Remus continued with a weak grin, "it appears that his house-elves have better hand-eye coordination than our friend, Peter, over here. At least the majority of his food ends up in his mouth."
And, sure enough, when they'd all looked to see for themselves, Peter's dress shirt DID have stains upon the front in all different shades and sizes. Some looked old and faded as others were vibrant, clearly new. James, whose wariness had somewhat evaporated, burst at the seams with laughter as Peter stuttered nervously, forcing himself to laugh along with them. Sirius's lousy mood had vanished in an instant, the foulness soon replaced with howling laughter.
Perhaps this mysterious brute wouldn't be so bad after all.