Disclaimer: All things in association with the Harry Potter books are at the mercy of J.K. Rowling. I don't actually own these characters; I just like to play with them.
Author Note: For Khajiit. I figure that if I post enough fanfics, she'll feel incompetent enough to post something herself (and no, 'Mindsweeper'fics don't count).
Warning: Slight slashiness.
Summary: Sirius knows that he is no Black. Slash.
"Stand up straight, Sirius. Black's do not slouch," his mother snaps coldly, her head held high. At her stiff request, Sirius draws back his shoulders. His obedience is acknowledged by her solemn nod of approval, which he is accustomed to after years of her dull, prudish instructions.
It's the summer holidays before fifth year. There's yelling again at the Black house, but this time there is a tone of finality to it. Angry tears are clouding Sirius' vision as he hurls all of his possessions into a lonely suitcase that his mother has thrown at him. The horrible shouting continues as the oldest Black heir is marched down the stairs for the last time.
He loathes himself as he storms out the handsome oak door of Black Manor, because even with the heavy burden of his suitcase, his posture is still elegant, still perfect, still straight.
I am no Black, he screams inside of his head.
Then why does he still walk like one?
It's outside, by the greenhouse, that he kisses the werewolf for the first time. Difficulty is encountered, though, with their difference in height. The werewolf, ever clever, draws himself up on the tips of his toes.
The other slouches.
And suddenly it's easier, less clumsy, for the two boys to be together. The reward for disobeying his mother, Sirius thinks, is much more pleasant than what he would get for succumbing to her will.
It is then that Sirius comes to the conclusion that he is no Black. Perhaps he never was.
After all, Blacks don't slouch.
Author Note: Be kind; Please review.