Tourjours Pur
Disclaimer: JKR owns all.
A/N: This is just a short drabble from the point of view of Sirius' mum, November of '81. It occurred to me that she was still alive at the time and wouldn't have known that he hadn't betrayed everyone. Most of the grammatical mistakes are deliberate.
Sirius, my son. The boy is - was, has always been - a Black, it turns out. But he deceived us. He deceived us all. Perhaps he is more Black then all of us. He never did like to conform. He tricked. How long did he trick? Has he been conniving and scheming his whole life? Has he?
From the moment he was born he was disobedient, uncooperative, unwilling to believe. He was a Gryffindor. But he was cunning. He should have been in Slytherin. But maybe that was why he wasn't.
He was too young. Nine years. He tricked. Sirius, my son, he tricked. Oh, how he tricked. Nobody predicted it. Nobody could have. I wish I did. He sacrificed. He ran. He hid. Sirius. He's brought this on himself. Yet he didn't. At age nine, he pretended to believe. At age eleven he was a disgrace. Gryffindor. Another trick. Another year.
Choices. He made choices. At age thirteen he fought. He yelled. He was friends with a half-breed. A muggle-lover. A mudblood. We all thought. When he was sixteen, he told me about his life. I thought. He screamed that the half-breed was more than just a friend. The blood-traitor pureblood fool he talked about loved the mudblood. He told me, he told me, that he gave up everything for his friends. And they gave up everything for him.
Pettigrew was a pureblood, if a small, scrawny, unimpressive one at that. He seemed as bad as the rest. He was. Traitor. Then Sirius, my son, he left. He lived in his deception. Ate his deception. Slept his deception. Breathed his deception. Owned this deception. Perhaps he would have died in deception, too.
But then. Then. Sirius, my son, he failed. He failed. But still. Of Sirius, my son, I am proud. And my life near its end, I know. No one will read this. The fire burns hot. Sirius, my son.