Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling.
i.
Sirius hated being home, hated being forced into an environment where everyone barely tolerated him. It was becoming harder to pretend, harder to keep up the act that being the heir to the House of Black demands. Even his room was no safe haven, being full of things no less than five hundred years old, heavy dark uninviting wood, silver and green, too much silver and green, and all the bloody snakes, not an inch of his personality at all visible. He'd tried to redecorate, but the house-elves kept cleaning and omitting any taste of gold and scarlet, any inch of himself, anything that could possibly offend his parents and any of their friends; even the clothes he left draped on the chair, or dropped to the floor were picked up almost immediately. It was like living in an overly ornate museum, or dungeon, take your pick. The whole house was the same, silver, green, black, dark, heavy, forbidding, uninviting, old, downright creepy, take your pick of adjectives, they all applied.
He never felt at home at all, he always had to keep his guard up, make sure that his mask was perfectly in place when they had company, so that the family could continue living in a dream world where they pretended that he was the perfect son and heir and that they didn't have a rebellious, Mudblood-loving, blood-traitor, Gryffindor son they ignored pretty much 24-7 unless he had done something to make them see him. The mask was non-existent when the family was alone, the shouting matches were occurring much more frequently as he got older. Regulus and his father tended to fade into the background on these occasions. They didn't have the strong personalities of Sirius and his mother, who had the same passionate convictions and stubbornness, albeit in defense of two different causes.
He wished all the time that his family could be more like the Potters, or the Lupins, hell, he'd even take Peter's family over his. Families were not supposed to be at each other's throats for having different views, for his failure to be a racist bigot spouting off the pureblood supremacist doctrine that had been in his family for generations. The sad part in all of this was that a little part of him still wanted his mother and father to love him again, for his little brother to still regard him as his hero, wondered if all this rebellion was actually worth it. After all, you couldn't change your family, your blood. Sixteen years and he still had the blood and family first mantra still indoctrinated into him. He was such a fucking follower.
ii.
Sirius was damned glad his priceless museum of a room had a balcony. It gave him a place to escape when the overwhelming silver and greenness and the bloody snakes became too much. And a convenient place to sneak out from. That was what he did when Mother had her stuffy friends over for tea, or when Father conducted business, or when Regulus had one of his slimy little Slytherins over. In fact, Sirius half-suspected that Mother invited them over, not Regulus. He'd noticed that Reg didn't really seem to have any friends. Acquaintances, yes, friends, no.
The night air was crisp for early July, but not too cold. Mother was entertaining again, some business associates of Father's, in from Bulgaria or Romania, he didn't really remember where or for what, he didn't actually give a damn. They'd told him and Reg to disappear for the evening, something he was only too happy to do. He lit a cigarette, dropping the used match over the railing. He briefly thought of trying to sneak out tonight, but the formal dining room was pretty much right under his room and had humungous windows, so Mother'd be sure to see him. And he wasn't in the mood to engage in another shouting match about his unacceptable behavior again. Not that he had anywhere to go, really. The Potters were in Greece until the end of the month, Remus was visiting his grandmum for the week, and Peter and his family were on holiday to Spain. He, unfortunately, was stuck in Grimmauld Place until the end of the week, then he had to try to survive a week at the country estate of his favorite aunt and uncle and his sadistic cousin, Bella and her lapdog of a husband, as well as the ice-princess Cissy and her rich bore of a fiancé, whose wedding was the happy occasion they were to be celebrating. No Andy. She'd taken off five years ago, eloped with Ted Tonks, real nice bloke, actually, but for the sticky problem of his being Muggle-born, had a kid, and subsequently gotten herself blown off the tapestry when the family had discovered that she'd run off about a month later. Everyone pretended that she didn't exist. Well, he knew she existed, even though his aunt and uncle pretended they had only ever had two daughters, his cousins that they never had another sister, his brother and his parents only two nieces, two cousins. It was a fucking fantasy, that's what it was.
He exhaled a trail of smoke into the night air, leaning over the railing, staring at the vastness of London, the lights from the skyscrapers, the noises from the Muggle traffic, the people walking unhurried to their destinations, feeling that he'd quite like to be one of those people in the street, that being an anonymous Muggle had to be better than being the heir to a old pure-blood family. He stubbed the fag out, tossing it over the edge, like he'd done with so many others, watching it descend down into the darkness of the garden below. He stared at his hands resting on the railing, covered in dirt and grime, aristocratic hands, finely boned underneath all the dirt, stared at the ornate silver signet ring on the fourth finger of his right hand, emblazoned with the Black family crest. He had continued to wear it even after being Sorted into Gryffindor, even as he no longer believed in the motto inscribed on the ring. Didn't really know why, had just always worn the ring even since he'd been given it by his father aged five. The ring was enchanted to grow with him, so it would always fit his finger. It was a symbol of all that the House of Black was, yet he had never actually thought of removing it from his finger. Guess in a way he was still a bloody sentimental fool who somehow believed that he could still be a part of something he hadn't believed in for over five years. For all his youthful rebellion against everything he grew up a part of, he never seemed to be completely willing to give it all up, to make the final irrevocable break like Andy had.
Damn, this house and this family made him so fucking morbid and introspective. He couldn't fucking stand it, he hated being left alone, he hated being ignored, he hated being forced to sort through all the confusion in his head. That was probably why he tried so bloody hard at school to be popular, to be cool, to be the best at everything he could, to be accepted and liked, to be the center of attention for reasons other than not being a good little Mudblood-hater. He craved acceptance, friends, love, attention, meaning, spontaneity, adventure, everything that he was lacking at home, everything his family had withdrawn after he'd become the epitome of a failure to them. He had a mask at school, just as surely as he had a mask at home. He pretended that he was confident, brilliant, nonchalant, the epitome of cool, happy, carefree, that there nothing that weighed on his mind, that his own family were not one of the darkest wizarding families in England, that he hated every last one of his relatives and family and all their groups of friends, that he didn't need their love and support, that he wasn't being completely abandoned and ignored, emotionally and literally, that he didn't act out to gain attention, that the only time he and his mother ever spoke wasn't only to yell at each other about the deficiencies in their point of view or his behavior, that the occasional cuts and bruises he sported were not from his mother chucking something at him or hitting him when she'd completely lost her temper, that she wasn't slowly becoming more insane as the years went on, that he wasn't becoming more reckless in provoking her to anger, that his father barely noticed him or talked to him, except to ask him to pass the salt or butter, or some other such rot at the formal family dinners he was forced to attend to keep up appearances, that he and his brother hadn't had a meaningful conversation in five years, that he barely even knew his own brother anymore, didn't know what he liked to do, what his favorite classes were, what his hopes and fears and dreams were, hadn't a bloody clue, that he wished that his family would love him again. He didn't even know why he cared so fucking much. That was what this house and this family did to him. Made him a sentimental, fucking moron.
iii.
Sirius didn't want to be here, didn't want to be stuck in these stuffy, prissy, unbearably uncomfortable and fucking hot dress robes, in the middle of a heat wave in mid-July, amongst all the hypocrisy and lies of the Slytherin pureblood set, at his ice-cold princess of a cousin's wedding to the most pompous, arrogant, and stuck-up wanker imaginable. Of course, he was filthy rich with an impeccable pureblood pedigree and a fucking humungous estate in Wiltshire (with white peacocks, for Merlin's sake!) so naturally his family thought he was the greatest thing since sliced fruit, or however that Muggle saying went. The blathering about two hearts becoming united in a pure and everlasting love was enough to make him want to break out in hysterical laughter completely inappropriate to this very serious occasion. Of course, he wasn't suicidal, (at least not today, amongst the two hundred or so of the Blacks and Malfoys' guests) so he restrained himself. But he was laughing on the inside. Oh, the fucking hypocrisy, Cissy was far more interested in the Galleons than the man and he was pretty bloody sure that Lucius was fucking the pretty brunette sitting two rows back from him (he'd seen them making eyes at each other). So much for faithfulness and everlasting love. He felt an elbow in his side.
"What?" he shot irritably towards Reg in a low whisper.
"Stand up."
Oh, he'd hadn't noticed the ceremony was finally the fuck over, and the beaming bride and groom were making their way down the aisle arm in arm. Now he was expected to survive a long and tedious formal reception in celebration of Cissy and Lucius' grand union. Bloody fantastic. Just how he wanted to spend the rest of the evening. Knowing these events, it would inevitably last well into the night. He'd try to escape during the dancing, make himself scarce until then, try not to draw any unwanted attention. Normally, he'd try to make a scene, but he was tired of fighting, tired of trying to make a point. No one fucking got it, realized the hypocrisy they were living under, that blood was the same whether or not you could trace your magical ancestry back twenty generations. He was just plain exhausted of always being the rebel.
Thank Merlin that three and a half hour, seven course dinner was finally over. It was one of the most boring and pointless wastes of time ever. He'd had to sit with his whole bigoted family at the head table, including both sets of grandparents, various aunts and uncles, the Lestranges, Malfoys, and of course, the happy couple. He'd managed to keep his mouth shut in the name of self-preservation because he was pretty much outnumbered 200 to 1 and he didn't have a death wish. The toasts were once again full of fucking lies and hypocrisy, toasting to happiness and eternal love and oh how fortunate they were to have found each other, complete and utter bullshit. Then came their first dance, amongst sighs of "oh, to be young and in love" and "look how happy they are." A fucking illusion was what it was.
The mingling and dancing began, guests chatting about inconsequential things, about how beautiful Cissy looked, the ceremony, blah, blah, blah. He didn't give a damn, he wanted out of this gilded cage, couldn't stand being amongst this company any longer. He could tolerate Slytherins only for so long and he'd just about reached the breaking point. He wasn't meant for the secret conversations, the hidden meanings, the glances that somehow could decipher your inner thoughts, the utter control everyone held themselves under, the scripted nature of interactions, the formality, the hypocrisy and the lies. He much preferred the spontaneity and the relaxed nature of his interactions at Hogwarts, where he didn't have to be so guarded. Of course, he never let anyone completely in, not even James knew the extent of his family problems, just that they were all Slytherins and had been for generations, that they hated that he was a Gryffindor and that he hated them back and didn't agree with their prejudice and bigotry. That was all they needed to know, in his estimation, so that was all the information he volunteered.
He checked to make sure Bella and Mother and Father and Cissy and Reg weren't watching him before he walked out from underneath the massive gilded gazebo his cousin had had erected to host the reception in the large, elaborate gardens near the manor of the country estate her father had inherited when he'd come of age. He walked towards the large, ornate fountain in the middle of the gardens, intent on escaping from the tediousness of the reception and the strains of the music. Cissy didn't even have good music, it was some lame string piece, boring and traditional and inoffensive, doing absolutely nothing to change his vision of her. Not him, he was all loudness and obnoxiousness and teenage rebellion. He didn't fit into this world, had never fit, no matter how hard he had tried, no matter how hard his mother had tried. By the time he'd reached age thirteen, they had both given up. Outwardly, he could never be mistaken for anyone but a Black, but inwardly, he was anyone but a Black.
He reached the fountain, settling himself on the edge, trailing his right hand into the darkness of the water. The coolness contrasted with humid night and brought him out of his gloomy thoughts. He loosened the collar that had been stifling him all day, removed the outer part of the robes, rolled up his sleeves to his elbows and reached into his pocket for the half-empty carton of fags he'd placed there earlier today. He'd been craving one for ages, but hadn't been able to sneak away until now as he was sure his mother had set Reg the task of baby-sitting him and making sure he didn't embarrass them with inappropriate behavior. Like he would be so stupid surrounded by all their relatives and friends. He could fucking count and he didn't like the odds of him surviving to his next birthday if he'd tried something. He had played the good heir for the better part of the day, but now he was tired and he wanted a bloody smoke. He lit the fag with some Muggle matches he'd swiped from the corner shop down the street from Grimmauld and took a deep drag of the cigarette. The smoke trailed out into the night air, as he sat on the edge of the fountain, knees to his chest, feeling utterly small and alone, even among two hundred happy people.
iv.
Sirius couldn't exactly understand why he did it, why he was sitting on a stone wall less than a kilometer from the Potters' home, drenched to the core, with all his belongings at his feet in a school trunk. It had started to rain a couple of hours ago, like a fucking cliché come to life. Signifying endings, new beginnings, who the hell even knew or cared?
He didn't even get the satisfaction of one last row with Mother. They'd gone off to the Black estate in the south of France, that favorite holiday spot of theirs, leaving him alone with the house elves and his thoughts. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to redecorate. They'd had a big row, he and Mother, ending with the slamming of doors, the throwing of breakables and his remaining at Grimmauld while they went on holiday, not returning until a couple days before term began. At first, he'd welcomed it, the removal of his family to another country for a month. But being alone for so long only gave him more time to think. He'd just gotten so tired of the silence and sense of overwhelming loneliness, the expectations, the weight of all that bloody history, the failure of his family to accept him, the complete absence of love or any kind of approval.
The spontaneous idea to run away came to him, two weeks after Mother, Father, and Reg left, while he was staring at the tapestry. Staring at it for hours, wondering if it was so bad to be a burn mark, if that was an acceptable price to pay for wanting to be free. Free from expectation, free from the weight of disappointment, disapproval, the burden of being the rebellious heir to one of the oldest pureblood families in Wizarding Britain. He couldn't quite pinpoint the exact moment he decided because all of a sudden he was in his room for the last time, stuffing clothes, books, anything he could grab from his room into his truck, dragging it down the stairs, leaving a note bearing the two words I'm done on the front table, closing the front door, and walking. Walking for miles, till he came to his senses and called for the Knight Bus halfway across London.
And now he had been sitting on this stone wall a kilometer down the road from the Potters, drenched with rain, his trunk at his feet for a couple of hours, deciding if he wanted to change his mind and go back home, with his family none the wiser. And they would all continue with the fucking vicious cycle of fighting and ignoring and abandonment until they all went mad. No, he decided, I'm done. He got up, grabbed the handle of his trunk, and continued down the road to the Potters.