The Sins of their Father

Author's Note: Harry Potter and the rest is to J.K. Rowling.

This is my first (and probably only) AU fic, so please bear with me. Quick beta by sakuya01, although it goes without saying that mistakes are my fault alone.

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Chapter One: The Beautiful People

There was never much love lost between the members of the Black family, and by virtue of inertia, it was doubtful there would ever be. Grimmauld Place, which was the ancestral house, could have been filled with so many effigies—ancestral or not—for all the emotions displayed by the people therein.

It wasn't even that the Blacks felt no emotions at all quickening their noble hearts. Far from it, to tell the truth. What was written in the family archives describing the doings of Blacks long gone to their rewards was proof enough of rivalry, misplaced love and smoldering looks exchanged under shadowed staircases. But such chronicles of great men and women were for the eyes of their descendants only, and to the outside world the Blacks continued their cold and mysterious existence; gracing balls and official gatherings with their beauty and sharp wit but never stepping down far from their exalted pedestals. They married within themselves, naturally, because their blood can never be less than azure.

So in a few words: they weren't the most pleasant of families, the Blacks. And the recent scions of this ancient and most noble house were no exceptions.

The head of the family was currently Orion Black, son of Arcturus and Melania Black (nee McMillan), who is not really good for anything but managing the production and sales of potions and artifacts that were legal only by the thinnest strand of his ebony hair. He also had a finger in every pie ever baked in the Ministry of Magic, although he would never so far as get directly involved in anything. He had learned early, through parts deduction and parts osmosis that operations fared better without interruptions. Uninterrupted business being those activities considered legal, Orion always made sure that he was operating within the bounds imposed by the Ministry. There were a few times when he had to move beyond the restrictions, of course. But that was what friends, money and the sheer power of the name Black was all about.

Orion wed Walburga Black when he was twenty eight and she eighteen. It was a marriage of convenience, as was customary, but which suited both parties well enough. The Blacks were all beautiful people, after all, as if nature found it necessary to mask such glaring deficiencies with perfect countenances and well-formed limbs. This did much for the general conclusion that being betrothed to a Black was not a bad thing, on the contrary. Unless one was the kind who cared for other people's character, which was highly unlikely in any case. Character was inconvenient and rarely thought about. People who tended to consider character when dealing with others never advanced far from their standing in society.

Suffice to say, the Blacks were also above such trivialities as liking and loving. They were— character or no—and they were beautiful, rich and powerful enough that such things were considered a small flaw. And even a quaint one, so that if anyone ever saw a Black beating a small animal to death with an umbrella, as James Potter had done a decade ago, they would have regarded the scene with the same tolerance a kindly uncle would, looking upon a child caught stealing cookies from the jar.

The child James had seen with the dog had been no other than Orion and Walburga's only son and heir, Sirius Black. James had been walking past Grimmauld Place when he heard a whining sound coming from the part of the hedge nearest the gate. Curious, he stood on the tips of his toes so that he could look over the brick walls and at a small boy who was too busy with the dog to notice that someone was now looking at him with rounded, disbelieving eyes.

James must have made a sound, though, because after a while Sirius Black looked up and smiled at him, revealing one uneven eyetooth. The smile was quite a fetching one, charming even, so that it seemed quite logical to beat a dog up because it happened to shed hair on one's favorite bench. He reckoned no person who could smile like that meant any real bad.

Only later did he realize what had happened, and how dangerous a person Sirius Orion Black was.

Sirius and James were of the same age, which was now twenty-three. Now that was not an easy age to be, all in all. Rougher for a bloke than a bird, even. Because when a wizard hit the venerable age of thirty he was expected to have several children on the way already and a good house near the good parts of London, if not right in it. So twenty three was the time a bloke was hard pressed to settle down, land a stable job and begin looking for the perfect female to build a nest with.

James Potter was unemployed, knew no trade (Unless flying can do anyone good. He was also quite good in deflecting curses.) and had no one to vouch for his character in case he did want to learn one. He used to have a job minding the counter at Borgin and Burkes down at Knockturn Alley. But he got cut off after hexing an overly excited customer who'd tried to pawn off a Hand of Glory that nearly tore James' head off his shoulders.

So it wasn't particularly surprising to see him now applying as a kitchen help that summer of 'eighty three. What was surprising was that the illustrious Black family seemed willing enough to take him on. Not that he ever saw them in the flesh, or they him. The hiring and firing of servants being quite a source of joy for one Horace Slughorn, whose ugly mug James would gladly have slugged as the head butler looked him up and down with a curl of distaste disfiguring his mouth.

"Hardy, are we?" said Slughorn, whose voice was higher in pitch than James was expecting.

"I'm known to be quite resilient," said James, adding as an afterthought, "sir."

"I hope so indeed. We have no time for nancies here at Grimmauld Place. You know the family you would be serving, of course?"

"The Blacks, sir?" said James, refraining from raising his eyebrows. As if, he thought, it wasn't their coat of arms plastered on every damned thing in the house.

"And their family words?" said Slughorn, as if reading James' mind.

"Toujours Pur, sir," said James. He was no great shakes at French, but even he knew what that meant.

"You are pureblood, then?"

The question threw him off a bit. He had heard a lot about the Blacks, and how they were remarkably selective as to their associates and the rest. But never had James considered the fact that the Blacks only accepted pureblood wizards as servants. No wonder they were keen to take him in. It must have been hard looking for such employees when pureblood usually meant old (and moneyed) family. James' own ancestral fortunes falling even before his father was born, he considered it a stroke of coincidence that he was indeed pureblood. He had never felt that it mattered before, until now.

He was beginning to understand Dumbledore when the old wizard said that James was one of the few who can actually do the job.

*

Sirius cut the pack of cards and spread them out on top of the desk. His companion, Bertha Jorkins, who was the daughter of a business associate of Orion's, giggled behind her fan and fluttered her eyelashes at him. He pretended not to notice as he filled their goblets with wine again, wondering if he should enchant all the clocks in the house to go faster so as to end this ridiculous interview.

He disliked Bertha, who was fat and plodding and coarse in manner. He hated how she started talking of the latest gossip as soon as they've sat down. As if he, Sirius Black, was interested in the vile habits of peasants like her! But he maintained a polite façade, saying 'You don't say' at the proper intervals and surprisingly succeeding in not cursing her at all.

She was ugly and dull and that was her misfortune, he told himself. If she wanted to bask in his beauty in a short while, who was he to deny her? Also, he wanted that rifle he had seen from a Muggle shop last week, had already exceeded his accounts at Gringott's and therefore had to keep his filial side of the family bread sufficiently buttered.

"Can you read my fortune then?" said Bertha, indicating the cards.

"If you wish," said Sirius. Married to a Squib because no one else would have you. Dying of apoplexy at fifty, poor thing.

They were interrupted by a discreet knock on the door. Sirius turned away from Bertha, glad of the excuse to do so, to see the door already opened by a boy in livery. He was preceded by a gueridon bearing a teapot and some related tea materials.

"The Master sends his regrets, he would be late for tea on account of his meeting," the boy murmured, when he was close enough to Sirius to make sure that he would be heard.

Sirius looked the boy over. "Who are you?"

"Remus Lupin," said the boy (he did not address Sirius as 'sir', Sirius noted somewhat irritably).

"You're new."

The boy—Lupin—said nothing, although it was a well known enough fact that the Blacks ran through servants like Fudge the Minister did mistresses. Instead, he arranged the tea things on the desk without meeting anyone's eyes like a model servant. Which, knowing Slughorn, Remus Lupin probably was.

"A couple of sugars for me."

Lupin handed Sirius his cup.

"I said two sugars."

"I've already added them in," said Lupin, pointing at Sirius' cup and stirring its contents without touching anything.

Wandless and wordless magic, Sirius noted. Which was all pretty high level for a servant, even at Grimmauld Place.

"Use the silverware." All the silverware was enchanted to glow red at the touch of most poison. You can never be too sure, being the only son and heir of the Black family riches. Unless Bertha would kindly taste the tea for him. And how would he like drinking tea from a cup that has already touched dear Bertha's fish lips?

"Why?" Lupin raised an eyebrow at him, obedient servant's mask slipping off and allowing Sirius to see the sardonic impatience characteristic of most talented young wizards.

"Oh, leave him be, Sirius. I think it is lovely what he did. Like a parlor trick," said Bertha.

Sirius noted with amusement the boy's wince to hear his feat—which was harder than it looked—reduced to mere parlor trickery. Then he said, "I don't pay you to ask questions. Or to perform silly tricks. Do as I tell you."

Lupin met Sirius' gaze at last, although it was impossible to know what was going on behind his own mud-colored eyes. He waved his hand to empty Sirius' cup, before repeating his earlier preparations, doing as Sirius told him this time. The only indication of his anger was the slight tremor in his hands when he handed the cup back to Sirius.

Sirius smiled at the boy, earning himself a faint blush (which was a normal reaction. Sirius was used to it.) before taking a sip. Paranoia be damned, he wasn't going to his own funeral as blue as the proverbial violet. Not with Barty Crouch junior blathering on about assassination attempts on Sirius' person. No. It was better to be thought crazy than dead. Unless it was the sort of death where he can look good as he does in life, as successful assassination attempts rarely ever are.