Written for the First Round of Fanfiction Idol with the prompt of Marauder Era. I still don't own anything, and do remember to drop a review if you read. :3
Alphard was taught from birth to function as part of the unit. His mother saw to that. Against the trend of other Black women, she had elected to teach her children herself rather than hustle them off to governesses; she took it upon her own shoulders to enforce the memorization of the Black motto, the tracing of the family tree, the philosophy of Wizard is better, Black is better, You are better. (Irma may not have been Black by birth, but she was one heart and soul, and by Merlin, she was going to groom her children to be the same. They would be honorable additions to the sprawling family tapestry—boys for the name, girls for the blood. They would be Blacks.) Alphard would never be alone, he was taught: he is forever and always Alphard Black, part of the family, part of the dynasty. Irma Black balanced the book of lineages on her knees and fixed her children with a grey stare.
"Walburga, Alphard, and Cygnus Black," she said. Each child sat a little straighter at the mention of his or her name. "You are the future of our family. You will carry on the most noble name. You must never forget where you come from, because it is who you are."
Alphard looked up at his mother with wide eyes, hands fisted between his chubby, crossed legs, and he believed her. Black, Black, Black, Black, like a Gregorian chant in his blood—droning and never-ending—filled his tiny world.
It would take another four years for the first echoes of doubt to enter the picture. By that time, he had learned the cruelty of sisters and the burden of brothers, and he was decidedly less enchanted with the idea of supporting an empire if it meant he was stuck with them forever. The principles still held strong, however: Wizard is better, Black is better, You are better. (It was only the companions that chafed him.) Until, wandering Obscurus Books while his parents made their monthly trip to Gringotts during Christmas break, he happened to meet a boy.
The boy in question was tall and sharp-faced, porcelain skin scattered with faint freckles and auburn hair combed smoothly back. He had hands like Alphard's Aunt Cassiopeia, a pianist of the highest caliber, long fingers that glided over the keys, graceful even in folded stillness.
The problem was that those elegant fingers were prying open Gayort Gralling's Guide to Beasts.
"I would not do that, if I were you," Alphard said from his perch on the gloriously large plush armchair that Obscurus Books had tucked away. (A prime reading spot if there ever was one. It was so massive that even now, at nine years old, his feet still barely brushed the wood floor.) He unsuccessfully tried to suppress a smirk as the older boy jumped near out of his skin, the dreaded book slamming shut between his hands. His dark eyes flickered in bewilderment for a moment before zeroing in on Alphard. The middle Black savored the look of surprise there before going on: "Gayort is nothing more than a superstitious fool. He still thinks griffin feathers can cure blindness, for Merlin's sake." Alphard slid off the chair, his gleaming shoes hitting the floor with a dull thud. He strode towards the boy and reached up, clasping another book on the shelf and pulling it out almost delicately. Looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, Alphard extended the volume towards the taller boy. "It's his brother Crispus you want, if you're looking for accurate reading on magical creatures."
The ginger quirked his eyebrows, amused at this little self-important child, but took the book offered to him and replaced the offending tome.
"Someone who knows his books, I see," the boy said.
Alphard shrugged. "I don't like to see people being fed false knowledge; there's enough stupidity in the world as it is."
The boy cracked a smile and shook his head slightly. "What's your name, then?"
Alphard swallowed and straightened his robes. Ah, the name. Merlin knows, he'd been told of the "honorable" naming tradition until his ears bled, but that didn't make the twitching lips and "Oh, that's unique" any easier. Still, he was a Black, so he tossed his head back and announced, "Alphard."
The boy's smile widened, bringing an angry flush to the nine-year-old's cheeks. "Pureblood name if there ever was one," he said. His gaze flickered over Alphard's tight fists and hardening jaw, and he added, "Keep your trousers on, Alphie—" Alphard pulled back, blinking in indignation. Alphie? "—I'm not making fun of it. You got the good end of the Pureblood naming stick. It's better than mine, anyway." The boy pulled his mouth to one side and stuck his hand in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. "I mean, you don't get any normal nicknames out of Septimus." Septimus shrugged, giving him a What can you do? look.
And Alphard couldn't help it: he smiled. He liked this boy, with his quirky manners and pianist hands; he liked his casual air and straightforward words.
"I suppose not," Alphard conceded. He turned his eyes to Gayort Gralling's Guide to Beasts, grinning. "Though I don't think it holds a candle to poor Gayort."
"What do you think you're doing?"
He winced, squeezing his eyes shut as Walburga's screech rang through the bookstore. He heaved a sigh through clenched teeth as she marched towards the pair. He turned and opened his mouth, prepared to shoot a sarcastic comment, but she wasn't even looking at him, her fierce grey eyes fixed on a point past him. Septimus looked up in confusion, his forehead wrinkling into deep furrows.
"You stay away from my brother, Septimus Weasley," she spat, bringing a hand down on Alphard's shoulder. Her fingers dug into him. "He doesn't need his head filled with your blood traitor nonsense and lies."
"Walburga, what are you talking about?" Alphard demanded.
Septimus looked between the two; his eyes stopped on Alphard, looking almost hurt.
"You're a Bl—"
"That's enough," Walburga snapped. "You're nothing but a fool, Septimus, and this conversation is done."
"Walburga—"
"Done, Alphard, do you hear me?" Her hand closed around his like a snake striking a mouse, and she fairly dragged him away, ignoring his embarrassed, resentful protests. He looked back at Septimus once, met his disappointed eyes, and then Walburga had wrenched him around the corner and past the bookshelves and through the door.
"Merlin, Walburga, what is bloody wrong with you?"
She swung them to a stop, leaning down into his face. "He's no good, Alphard, I don't want you associating with such filth—"
"Just because you're older and at Hogwarts, you think you can order me around and you can't—"
"Shut up, Alphard!" she hissed, shaking his arm, her hand still clenched around his. "That boy is a blood traitor."
Alphard's mouth snapped shut.
"His name may still be on the family tapestry, but not for long, mark my words. Nothing but trouble comes from Gryffindors." Her red lips curled in disdain. "You're lucky I came and found you two out before he started convincing you that muggles are our friends or some other drivel."
Alphard's gaze wandered to the door, his nostrils flaring, and something twisted inside his gut. "He's…he's a pureblood, right? That's what matters…right? So…why…?"
"I told you, Alphard," she sighed, straightening. "He's a Gryffindor, and a muggle-lover, and an idiot."
"Didn't seem like an idiot," Alphard mumbled. He seemed like a boy not very different than himself.
"Well, he is. I should know, he's only a year above me."
He looked back up at his sister, at her cold eyes and crossed arms, and he wondered how he could like a Gryffindor, a blood traitor, more than he liked her.
At Platform 9 ¾, as Alphard waited for his first train, Walburga waxed poetic about the joys of liked-minded Slytherins while his father nodded approvingly, adding, "You'll make a fine Slytherin, Alphard. All the Blacks do."
Alphard smiled and said nothing, trying to ignore the lingering sour taste in his mouth.
The Sorting Hat didn't hesitate for one moment before it shouted out in favor of the house of serpents. (Alphard wished it did, though, just so that he might have been different, if only a little.)
"You're so stiff, Alphard. Lighten up a little!"
Alphard raised his eyebrows critically, swinging one leg over the side of the armchair. "What, and end up an unbridled heathen like you?"
Druella tossed her head, platinum hair swinging, and rolled her eyes. She was trying to look disdainful, but a smile broke through. "I know you like to think yourself all superior," she answered, folding her little arms, "but the truth is you're just jealous."
"Of what?"
"Of my youth, of course. I'm carefree and fun." She twirled in place; the firelight set the outlines of her body aglow. Druella came to a stop with her hands on her hips, her head at an angle. "Whereas you are a sad, middle-aged man with a stick up his bum!"
Alphard straightened in the chair, pulling his eyebrows together. "It is not just some stick, young lady," he said, voice deep with mock indignation. "That is my wand, I'll have you know."
Druella laughed and wrinkled her nose, blue eyes shining.
And Alphard couldn't help it: he laughed back.
It didn't occur to him until much later that this was another blow to his failing family pride. How could Black be better when in a mere twelve-year-old he saw all that was good in the world?
Alphard knew darkness when he saw it, too. He knew it the moment he met Tom Riddle.
"I'm Alphard. Alphard Black."
The boy looked at him with strange, pale eyes, and Alphard felt his gut shiver. After far too long a pause, his fellow first-year took the extended hand and shook it.
"Tom Riddle," he replied.
"Pleasure to meet you," Alphard said, even though his palm had gone clammy and slick and he could not find it in himself to summon a smile. (Blacks must be polite, after all, and he had been taught that if he was not Black he was nothing.)
"Indeed."
After that, Alphard made an effort to never spend more time with the boy than he had to. Even as the years passed and Tom Riddle charmed Hogwarts into loving him, Alphard found it hard to forget that first moment—before the orphan boy learned how to properly play the part—when he looked into Tom's eyes and saw more than he wanted to. He was sure he would have been better off had he learned to accept the sincere mask Riddle donned. Then, he would be able to agree instead of stay silent as Walburga commented on what a model Slytherin he was. He would not have that heartbreaking wrench in his chest when Cygnus sang his praises.
"He's so nice, isn't he?" Druella said, watching Tom's retreating figure. "You'd think being made Prefect would turn him into a stuck-up prat like the others, but he's not."
Alphard sighed and looked away from her thoughtful face; he didn't want to see those dangerous ideas blooming in her pretty eyes. "I suppose so."
Alphard tried not to care when Druella and Cygnus started dating. He made a Gyffindor-worthy effort to smother the unfamiliar jealousy, to smile as they held hands, and ignore the way her laughter became gentle and demure. He tried to tell himself that it wasn't Cygnus's fault that he was the handsome brother, nor was it Druella's fault that she looked past her close friend.
He could not do that any more than he could forget the truth of Tom Riddle.
"I don't understand why you're so antagonistic towards him, Alphard, I really don't." Cygnus twirled his wand idly between his fingers. "Riddle's nothing if not likable."
"I'm not antagonistic," Alphard said, dipping his quill in the inkwell. He wrote another sentence of his Transfiguration essay before continuing. "I just don't grovel over him like his pack of followers."
In his peripheries, he saw Cygnus roll his eyes. "'Not antagonistic' he says," he mocked.
"If you're going to do nothing more than bother me, Cygnus, you can leave."
"You need to get over whatever odd little grudge you have against him, Alphard. Riddle is Head Boy, a model student, and a gentleman. You'd do well to be his friend."
Anyone could have heard the longing in his voice, how much Cygnus did want to be the friend of the charming, all-powerful Tom Riddle.
Alphard stopped writing, swallowed hard, tightened his jaw. His stomach clenched, but he forced out, "I suppose." He waited until his brother said goodnight and left the Common Room before slumping back in his seat and running both hands through his hair. Alphard closed his eyes and gripped his skull, letting his head loll over the back of the chair. If only Cygnus knew. Alphard should have told him right then, dammit! If Cygnus knew the things that Tom Riddle did, he would not speak of him so. If he knew what Alphard knew, if he knew how Tom Riddle leaned in and pressed his open mouth to Druella's soft, pale neck, how he made her smile and whisper his name, how he took kisses from her flushed and all-too-eager lips, Cygnus would not dare call him a gentleman.
Only fifteen, he thought, a shaky breath escaping him. She's only fifteen and he's a seventh year and she's taken and he'll do nothing but hurt her. (Not like age had made a difference when Alphard himself stared at her across the Slytherin table or dreamt of the smell of her hair.)
But Tom Riddle wanted power—had too much power already—and he would break whomever he pleased if it meant more.
(And really, how could wizard be better if he had seen more kindness in the faces of passing muggles than he saw within the walls of Hogwarts?)
Still, there was a reason that Alphard was a Slytherin and not a Gryffindor, a reason why he had walked away from the sight in the hallway and stayed silent while his brother ascended to his room. So he sighed, opened his eyes, and continued his Transfiguration homework. His hand stopped shaking after another paragraph.
By the end of Alphard's seventh year, he and Druella stopped talking. By the time she married his brother they were no closer than strangers. The truth was that he had loved a girl that no longer existed; Cygnus had made her compliant and Tom had made her cruel, and he had already seen far too much of both to ever forgive her for it.
Alphard sat in the very back of library with his feet propped up on the table, reading by the light of the mid-afternoon sun. He shifted in his seat slightly so the page caught the sunlight better. He got through two more pages before he finally acknowledged the weight of the anonymous gaze he felt on him and looked up.
He tried and failed to keep the surprise off his face.
"Still like your creature books, I see," the sixth year said, inclining his head towards the book in Alphard's hands. Alphard shook himself out of his stupor and looked down at the hardback as if he had forgotten it was there.
"Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them," Septimus went on, sliding his hands into his back pockets. "It's a good one."
Alphard nodded at his lap and said nothing. What was there to say to a boy three years older than him he had met once in a bookstore? A boy his sister had called a blood traitor and a fool, no less. There was a long stretch of silence, extending until Alphard thought that Septimus had left, until the Gryffindor said abruptly, "I wouldn't have pegged you for Black, you know. In Obscurus."
Alphard looked up, dark eyebrows drawn together. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Septimus shrugged and looked out the window. The light poured over his face, bleaching his skin white and his hair golden. "You hear things about your family—well, our family technically, I guess—and I knew what a right harpy your sister was." He snorted lightly, amended, "Is."
Alphard opened his mouth to defend her, if rather half-heartedly, but Septimus cut across him.
"And you were too friendly. Not to mention you didn't ask about my blood status right off." His eyes followed a bird as it flew by outside. "I dunno. You just didn't seem like a Black."
Alphard carefully shut Fantastic Beasts and brought his legs down. "I'm…sorry for what my sister said to you that day."
Septimus turned towards him again, one eyebrow raised. "Are you really?" he asked, sounding truly curious. "Well, that's a good sign, I suppose. But anyway, it doesn't matter. I don't care what names the Blacks call me; I'm proud I'm not one of them."
Septimus wandered away from the window until he looked mortal once more, all muted colors and gangly lines instead of radiance. "What about you, Alphie? What've you chosen?" He quirked his mouth the same way he had four years ago, held his gaze a moment longer, and then strode past the rows of bookshelves and out of sight.
He heard of Septimus's wedding another four years later, and he saw his father strike Cedrella from the tree so that her blackened hole matched her husband's. Alphard listened to the horrified exchanges in the room around him, all the exclamations of "The shame of it!" and "What a terrible disappointment!" and "Just shocking!", and he wondered why the family he had always been told was so strong and proud should continue to suffer from runaways.
He thought of the way Druella used to laugh, of Septimus's strange smirk, and he thought that maybe he had chosen, after all.
He had always been told that his name, Alphard, came from the constellation Hydra. The brightest star of them all, in fact.
"They call it the heart of the serpent," his mother had said, fingers flitting over a drawing of the night sky. "That's what you are, Alphard."
He did not tell anyone, but he preferred the word's Arabic roots. Al Fard. The solitary one.
(They proved him right when he heard of Walburga taking a wand to his face on the tapestry. What loss in one limb to a Hydra, after all? Three will grow back to replace the weakness of the first. But a solitary heart cannot be severed, for it has no ties.)