It's not so much that they hate as that they've never had the chance to love, she reflects. She remembers their childhoods (plural, because they grew up too separately for it to be one in the same): not so much guided as molded into enemies. They've always struck her as opposites: Sirius the playful troublemaker, always too bold or rowdy for supper before bed or his parents' good graces; Reg the meek follower, his dissenting thoughts stifled by the Black family name. It's reputation, she thinks, that tears them apart; one beloved and one resented, they become only what they're each expected to be.
She babysits often in summer, before her name is Tonks or her place on the tree is naught but a charcoal burn. It strikes her over how Aunt leaves the house, kissing Reg goodbye and kicking Sirius away for his ill manner. She does her best to keep the peace, complimenting Reg's good behavior and engaging Sirius in lively conversation; and though they won't cooperate, the brothers never clash, skirting on edge and keeping Andy in the middle.
She'll life her life on borderline, caught between what's right and what she knows, hating every moment of indecision. In the meantime, she copes how she does best and lives along the status quo.
It's like that now as they struggle with conversation, both speaking just to Andy and avoiding his brother's eyes. The topic today is Hogwarts, a default cue for awkwardness. "And you play Chaser for Slytherin?" Reg is asking with wide eyes (he's always been a fan of Quidditch).
"Keeper," she corrects, and it's fitting, she thinks: she's always trying to stop the blows from hitting. "And Cissy plays Seeker."
Reg's smile gets a little dreamier: Cissy's always been his favorite cousin.
"Did you win the Cup this year?" chips in Sirius loudly-he tells Andy he wants to be a Gryffindor, but he still supports her on principle. Sirius has started to do most things in life on principle, she's noticed, even if he's little so at times they contradict.
Andy shakes her head. "Ravenclaw has got Benjy Fenwick for Captain; driven though he is, no plan Lucius can come up with has ever bested him." The Malfoy's name tastes vile, and she wonders again why she hadn't just let the damned had put her in Ravenclaw when it wanted to.
"Well, Ravenclaw's all right," says Reg not quite conclusively enough for Andy to be convinced. As usual, the unsure wobble to his voice tells her there's more to her cousin than what his parents have sold him. "Second best."
"Second best," Sirius echoes, but Reg doesn't spare him a glance. All three know they differ on what it's second best to, and it's safer to keep the tension beneath the surface. Besides, this is better than it could be: Andy's sure Sirius would change his mind on this had he grown up knowing loyalty.
To end the silence, Andy confides, "The Hat thought about making me a Ravenclaw," and the looks of intrigue on both faces match perfectly.
It's funny, how alike they can be. Their eyes and boyish smiles match; oftentimes they'll even sound the same. Under shadow of a defiant curtain of hair, Sirius even more so seems to resemble his younger brother, when the length of his nose and curve of his jaw are less apparent. She mixed them up in the dead of the night once, called Sirius Reg's name-she still has the scars.
(It's our choices that make us who we are.)
"Ravenclaw would have been all right," mumbles Reg politely, jerking Andy from her thoughts, and she smiles gratefully.
"You think?" says Sirius earnestly, searching for another dimension to his brother, and it's then that Reg chooses to look at him, right in the eye.
Her breath catches as something flickers in Sirius at the long-sought compromise, and he's just broken into a wide grin when Aunt comes home with a pop.
Before she understands what's passed, they've retreated to their separate rooms and forgotten what little history they'd made.