The boy supposed his parents had loved him very much at first, but he was born into a sealed past, a past full of horrors blacker than the family name, horrors that his family offered barely a backwards glance.
His tiny, pattering feet failed in covering up the moans and creaks that ran throughout the cold, empty house that he grew up in.
But he at least hoped he had succeeded in livening the noises up a bit.
For he was a child to which reckless bravery came simply and without judgement. He was a child who was curious beyond the patience of his elders, and asked whenever a question blew his way.
The very first one he could remember asking was about the eerie heads of old house elves, too frail and old to work.
And the answer came just as strongly.
"It's a tradition," his family told him.
And so, as the boy grew, he kept asking. He asked why they all used the word 'Mudblood' without a second thought, and why Kreacher was always sticking his fingers in the oven, and why auntie Nymphadora was now only a scorch mark on the grand old family tree. He asked about Hogwarts. He asked when he'd get to go, he pestered Regulus beyond irritation about the knowledge he would gain, and then he asked why every single person whose face was still recognizable on the family tree was a Slytherin.
Why is it important? He wondered.
And to all these questions, his family gave him the same callous answer.
"It's a tradition."
The answer was not satisfying to him, in fact, it annoyed him beyond reason. Because yes, he was brave and yes, that may have made him reckless, but he was also so very intelligent, a gift that should have been cherished but instead caused sneers and worry.
His family began to worry that they had borne a Gryffindor.
This boy was casted out slowly, gradually, so that the knifelike longing that he possessed in his stomach was unrecognizable until much later.
Sirius
/sir i es/
noun.
Astronomy. The Dog Star, the brightest-appearing star in the heavens, located in the constellation Canis Major.
Sometimes he'd crawl up to the large window in the living room at night, and scan the night sky for the star after which he was named. And sometimes he would speak to it. He'd tell it about his day and his worries, his sorrow and the rare joys of childhood, the proud moments and the guilt he carried without knowing why.
"I am bright as a star and scary as the biggest dog," he would whisper to himself on nights when the guilt was all-consuming.
The thought comforted him.