A/N: Padfoot's Story is a series of oneshots and drabbles centered around one Sirius Black during his Hogwarts years. Before we start, let me warn you that this collection is a companion to the James Potter series, which can be found on my profile. Since James and Sirius are very nearly inseparable, this fic will be updated infrequently, and most chapters are best read in the context of the main story, so I recommend you take a look at James Potter and the Immortal Icon when you've got the chance. You might also be interested in Moony's Story, Wormtail's Story, and Lily's Story the other companions to the James Potter series.
This chapter takes place during James Potter and the Immortal Icon, chapter 4.
Headmaster Stuff
"Well, would you look at that. Another Black."
"If you put me in bloody Slytherin, I swear to Merlin I will rip you into tiny little pieces and feed you to a dragon."
"That's a bit harsh, wouldn't you say? Although you must admit threats are right up old Slytherin's alley."
"Sod off."
"Not if you want me to Sort you any time soon. And you should know that I rather like to be in one piece for these things."
"That so? Then you'd better not put me in Slytherin."
"You seem awfully adamant about that for a member of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black."
"Mouldy and Most Rotten's more like it."
"And what would your parents say if they heard you talking like that?"
"I don't care a bleeding knut what they say. They can take their ruddy pure-blood rubbish and shove it up their—"
"I see. Well, one thing's for sure. You'd be miserable in Hufflepuff. Far too excitable. And Ravenclaw's out, too. When was the last time you cracked the cover of a book?"
"Gryffindor."
"What was that?"
"Gryffindor. Put me in Gryffindor."
"Are you trying to order me around, young Mr. Black?"
"Don't call me that!"
"What— Mr. Black? Ah, yes, the newest Mr. Black. It's been a while since the last. Your father, in fact, I think it was. They've all been girls since."
"Get stuffed!"
"It's true! Anyhow… Such a long line of Blacks, and every last one of them in Slytherin."
"Not this one! Now just put me in Gryffindor already!"
"So presumptuous. You like being in charge, don't you Mr. Black? I ought to put you in Slytherin just for that!"
"You bloody well better not! Put me in Gryffindor now or I'm walking right out those bloody doors!"
"Now hold on. Let's think this through."
"I don't want to think this through!"
"Old Slytherin valued ambition, shrewdness, and cunning – you've got all those, near enough."
"No! Shut up!"
"And a penchant for circumventing the rules, oh yes."
"Are you listening? I DON'T WANT TO BE A SLYTHERIN!"
"Your family would be rather disappointed, don't you think?"
"What's the worst they can do, blast me off the family tree? Take the cane to me?"
"Hmm, that's a zero for self-preservation then. And not much for traditional values, are we Mr. Black? But you are certainly reckless. Godric would have loved that."
"Yes! Yes – Gryffindor! That's me! Go on! Say it!"
"And to be fair, Gryffindors aren't particularly well-known for their love of rules."
"That's me! Recklessly breaking rules every chance I get!"
"Yes… Yes, I see… Hmm… Well perhaps you're on to something after all, young Sirius. All that's left to consider is the courage."
"What do you want me to do? Slay a dragon? Wrestle a troll? Go starkers for the rest of the feast?"
"Nothing so… abrupt. No, all you have to do is tell me that if I place you in Gryffindor, you will be able to maintain the conviction you've shown just now, regardless of what anyone says or does. Knowing that your family may disown you, that the Slytherins will surely resent you, that even the Gryffindors you are so keen to join may distrust you for your name— Knowing all this, do you still want to be in Gryffindor?"
"Absolutely."
"In that case, I believe it's about time you became a… GRYFFINDOR!"
-.-.-
Ever since that moment, he'd known this was coming.
"FILTH!"
The black owl. The red envelope.
"GRYFFINDOR? VILE, UNGRATEFUL CHILD!"
He knew his mother's temper far too well to delude himself into thinking he'd escape unscathed, even so far removed from the stuffy, dank hell-hole of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. Although he had dared to hope it might wait a few days.
"HOW DARE YOU? HOW DARE YOU!"
Yes – his mother's temper was famous. Not so much her eloquence.
"YOU HAVE DISGRACED THE ANCIENT AND MOST NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK! FILTH! SCUM!"
He heard the familiar words and recognized them as code for far less civil insults, words she would never permit her precious second son to hear. They might shatter his fragile constitution, poor little thing like him. If only they knew how alike the two brothers really were.
"YOU ARE NOT MY SON!"
Oh, how he wished.
"YOU REPUNGANT, HORRID BOY! CONSORTING WITH BLOOD-TRAITORS AND MUDBLOODS!"
His hands tightened convulsively on the edge of the table at the slur that drew a collective gasp from the students gathered for breakfast. He was painfully aware of the eyes burning holes into his head but dared not think about what they would say – what James would say. James Potter, his one and only friend, the first to look past his family's reputation.
And, no doubt, the last to look past his family's reputation, now that they had all heard his mother's Howler.
"SHAME! SHAME AND SCANDAL! YOUR FATHER CAN HARDLY BEAR TO FACE THE OTHER RESPECTABLE WIZARDS BECAUSE OF YOU, SIRIUS ORION BLACK!"
Respectable? Respectable! He could have howled with laughter at the thought – as though any of the sodding blood-purists his father associated with could be considered respectable.
"YOU CAN THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS YOU ARE AT HOGWARTS AND NOT HERE WITH ME! WHEN I SEE YOU, BY MERLIN, I SWEAR I WILL REMIND YOU WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A BLACK!"
His stomach twisted at the threat, veiled though it might have been. He understood perfectly well what awaited him the next time he went home. The cane, certainly, and if he was lucky, it wouldn't be anything worse. Nevertheless, he resolved not to go home for Christmas. Just in case.
"YOU HAD BEST THINK TWICE BEFORE YOU SHAME OUR NAME AGAIN!"
Oh, he would think twice, alright. He would think long and hard about how best to disgrace his family – they would surely punish him for each and every stunt he pulled, so no point in wasting his efforts. Make them all count. Give his mother something to really squawk about.
"YOU—!"
The sudden, gaping silence jolted him out of his dark thoughts, and he stared in confusion at the small pile of ashes smoldering on the table before him.
"Mr. Black."
Sirius jumped at McGonagall's tentative voice, struggling not to flinch as she called him by that name – the name of the family he so hated. Waves of anger and frustration and fear built inside him as he felt James shift on the bench beside him.
McGonagall began to say something else, but Sirius' mad, strangled laugh drowned her out. He reached for his goblet – anything to keep his hands busy, to keep him from finding a Slytherin, any Slytherin, and beating the ever-living hell out of them. He knew he shouldn't. He knew it would only make things worse.
He wanted to do it anyway.
"Noble House of Black, indeed!" he spat instead, fighting the violent urge with everything he had. The last thing he needed was to get himself expelled, shipped off back to the parents who so despised him. "Love you, too, mother."
"Mr. Black," McGonagall said again, and Sirius flinched. Was that all he would ever be here – a Black?
"Sirius."
The boy gave a start at the new voice and turned to find himself looking into clear blue eyes that met his solemnly; eyes that twinkled in impossible understanding, set in an ancient, wrinkled face. Sirius, he had said. Not Black. Not Mr. Black. Not even Sirius Black. Just Sirius.
He felt a stirring of hope.
The Headmaster's lips quirked into a sad smile. "Why don't we go have a little chat? Follow me."
Sirius didn't even think about disobeying. He stood stiffly, fixing his eyes on Dumbledore's retreating back so he didn't have to look at James or anyone else.
They walked in silence for ages, Sirius focusing on the act of walking, watching for the trick steps the other students had warned him about. They said the staircases could change direction as you climbed them, or give way and swallow you whole. They said some steps only pretended to be real and solid, when really they were as insubstantial as vapor. Others would bite your toes or grab your ankle or steal your bag.
The last thing he needed now was to get caught by one of those steps.
So he kept his gaze downcast, his mind on the floor and the many staircases Dumbledore led him up. He kept his mind on the floor and resolutely off what had just happened, what was about to happen when Dumbledore finally stopped walking.
"Sugar Quills," Dumbledore said without breaking stride, and Sirius blinked at him, wondering where that had come from.
When he saw the stone gargoyle leap aside, heat flooded Sirius' face and he dropped his gaze again. Of course it was a password. You needed passwords to get practically anywhere in this gigantic maze of a castle.
Both Sirius and Dumbledore remained silent as they stepped past the gargoyle onto the spiral staircase, which promptly jerked into motion, causing Sirius to stumble. Dumbledore grabbed his arm to steady him, but made no comment as they continued upward. When the stairs finally stopped, Dumbledore pushed open a door and gestured Sirius through.
Sirius found himself in a small, cozy office. A window in one wall looked out over the grounds, which were tinged with pink in the sunrise; dozens of intricate silver instruments sat on stands and shelves, but Sirius couldn't even begin to guess their purposes. Portraits lined the walls, their inhabitants dozing against their frames, completely ignorant of the boy who stood gaping at them as the Headmaster took his seat behind the grand mahogany desk.
"Lemon drop?"
Shaking his head, Sirius turned a full circle to examine the rest of the office. A cabinet stood closed in the corner – but Sirius' gaze skipped over it to light on the golden bird on the perch. The bird trilled softly, tilting its head to study the boy. Tongues of flame leaped into the air as the bird stretched its wings, only to chirp contentedly and tuck its head under its wing.
"Fawkes," said Dumbledore from his desk. "My phoenix. Such wonderful creatures…"
Sirius reluctantly completed his survey of the office and faced the Headmaster again.
"Have a seat, Mister—" Dumbledore stopped himself and shook his head. "Have a seat, Sirius." He indicated the chair across from him with a sweeping gesture. Sirius sat.
A heavy silence fell.
At first, Sirius stared at Dumbledore – or rather, at Dumbledore's hands, as he couldn't bring himself to look the Headmaster in the eyes – but after a few minutes, the boy took to studying his own fingernails as he waited for Dumbledore to speak. There was a bit of dirt under his thumbnail that he dug out, and some crumbs had stuck to the front of his robes at breakfast. He brushed them away.
The silence stretched on. The longer it drew out, the harder it was for Sirius to keep the thoughts at bay.
"It was Cissy," he said, rather stupidly.
Dumbledore said nothing.
Sirius licked his lips and continued. "Cissy – Narcissa – she's my cousin… She's the one who told her. She was mad – I saw her last night. She was mad that I…" That I betrayed the family by refusing to be Sorted into Slytherin.
It was ridiculous, of course. She couldn't know what had passed between Sirius and the Sorting Hat, how vehemently Sirius had refused to follow in the family's deep and bloody footsteps. All she knew was that somehow, someway, Sirius had wound up in Gryffindor.
She didn't need any other reason to hate him.
"She must've told her," he repeated in a low voice. "I oughtta hex her. I oughtta pound her prissy little face in – wipe that self-righteous smirk off her oh-so-pretty face."
Dumbledore seemed entirely nonplussed at this threat against another student, and they lapsed back into silence.
The words of the Howler echoed in his head, surfacing again and again, no matter how hard Sirius tried to push them away. Shame – filth and shame and scum. Mudbloods and blood-traitors. Thank your lucky stars – remind you what it means to be a Black.
He shuddered.
A downward twinge of his lips was the only sign Dumbledore gave that he had seen.
"She hates me," Sirius said, more to fill the silence than anything else.
To Sirius' relief, Dumbledore spoke. "Your cousin?"
"Her too. All of them." Sirius paused, dropping his head into his hands. "My mother. She hates me. She's always hated me." He was surprised at the vulnerability in his voice. With a scowl, he raised his head to glare at Dumbledore, as though his maddeningly tranquil presence were responsible for the moment of weakness. "I hate her too," he seethed.
Dumbledore gazed impassively back. "There does seem to be a bit of a rub there."
Scoffing, Sirius stood and began to pace the room. "She's a bloody nightmare! I hate her – I hate – I hate... No." He bit down on his anger as he had been told so many times to do. Don't let them see. It wasn't proper. A proper wizard didn't air his dirty laundry for all the neighbors to see. A proper wizard held his petty squabbles under wraps. A proper wizard acted, or he endured. He never whined, he never went to another to fix his problems, and he never let a stranger know his private thoughts.
"I'm sorry," said Dumbledore slowly. "No?"
Sirius shook his head and sank back into the chair. "It doesn't matter. My family disagrees with my Sorting, but that's all over with now. May I go to class?"
"Not just yet, I think."
Rolling his eyes, Sirius crossed his arms and sunk low in his seat, waiting for Dumbledore to say whatever it was he had come to say.
But Dumbledore merely looked on.
Some of the silver instruments ticked and hummed from the corner. Fawkes the phoenix crooned forlornly, a low, lilting sound that brought tears to Sirius' eyes. He blinked them furiously away.
"Stupid bird."
With one last trill that sounded like an admonition, Fawkes fell silent.
Sirius stared at the portraits on the walls, who dozed on, looking for all the world like a line of doddering old fools too frail and senile to possibly be of any use to the Headmaster.
"Who're they?" Sirius asked.
Dumbledore hardly spared a glance for the portraits. "Former Heads."
The instruments ticked and hummed, and Sirius was running out of distractions.
He spotted the Sorting Hat, sitting lifeless on a shelf, its ragged, stitched mouth wrinkled into a lopsided grin that made Sirius' lip curl. He remembered its words from the night before. Knowing that your family may disown you, that the Slytherins will surely resent you, that even the Gryffindors you are so keen to join may distrust you for your name— Knowing all this, do you still want to be in Gryffindor? His eyes prickled once more. "Stupid Hat."
"Regretting your Sorting so soon, Sirius?"
"No." Sirius angrily rubbed his eyes. "Who wants to be in rotten old Slytherin, anyway?"
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "Quite a few people, if the numbers are anything to go by." He sighed. "It might have been easier for you if you had been in Slytherin."
Sirius scoffed.
"At the very least," Dumbledore said lightly, as though he were commenting on the bright blue sky visible through the window, "your family would not have reacted so unpleasantly." Sirius ignored him. "And the Slytherins would surely have welcomed you. I understand the Blacks have quite a long history in that House." Sirius merely blinked. "Any you wouldn't have to deal with the suspicion of the Gryffindors."
"No," Sirius spat. "They'd just hate me."
"Ah." Dumbledore's eyes flashed behind his half-moon spectacles. "At last we come to the heart of the matter."
Sirius snapped his mouth shut and glared at his trainers.
"You like being in Gryffindor, Sirius," said Dumbledore, undeterred. "Am I right?"
Sirius mumbled an affirmative.
"And even if you had a chance to redo your Sorting, you wouldn't, correct?"
"Never in a million years."
"And if I'm not mistaken, you've already made friends with a certain Mr. Potter."
At that, Sirius hesitated. He shrugged, unable to find his voice.
Dumbledore frowned. "No? Hmm. It looked as though you two were getting on quite well. Was I mistaken?"
Swallowing thickly, Sirius shook his head. "We… we were friends."
"And now?"
He didn't want to think about this, about James and what he must think now. He'd defended Sirius to the other boys last night, saying that it didn't matter that he was a Black, that he wasn't anything like his family. But James didn't know the first thing about the Blacks. He didn't know about their fanaticism or their pride, about their unyielding standards. He didn't know that a Black who disgraced the family name would be beaten and berated until the lesson sank in, or that a blood-traitor like James could expect nothing short of open hostility.
James had been willing to overlook Sirius' family yesterday, when he'd been ignorant of what that really meant. But now that he'd gotten a glimpse, would he feel the same?
"I guess it's up to him," Sirius whispered, trying to regain his composure.
"Indeed it is," said Dumbledore. A knowing smile twinkled in his eyes. "But I think you may yet be surprised by his decision."
"Professor…?"
Dumbledore merely winked and turned his attention to a stack of parchment sitting on his desk. "You may go, Sirius. Your friend ought to be on his way to Herbology just now."
And with a last, confused look at the silver-haired Headmaster, Sirius stood and left the room.