DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything Harry Potter. They all belong to J.K. In case you didn't know already.
Sorry it's taken me so long to write more, I've been very busy and though the ideas have been coming, the time hasn't been there so again I humbly apologise. This story, yes, well, it goes deep into what I perceive Sirius Black's childhood and family to be like. It has rape, drug references, child abuse, and I suppose it is a little disturbing (but then again, isn't all of my work?). As for the old woman, she's just a neighbour of the Black's, she isn't even named, and that isn't important anyway. Lastly I would like to thank all the reviewers from 'Perfect Moment' for all feedback and now I will be writing more. ('Perfect Moment' is my other fic, if you haven't read it yet, you might like to). I have another story that will be up soon, if not today, again starring Sirius, so it wont be too long. And as for this fic, well, I might add a Part 2 or something, we'll see how it goes. I'll shut up now and let you read. RR please!! (hopefully....)
Fumbling his confidence
And wond'ring why the world has passed him by
Hoping that he's meant for more than arguments
And failed attempts to fly, fly
We were meant to live for so much more
Have we lost ourselves?
Somewhere we live inside
Somewhere we live inside
We were meant to live for so much more
Have we lost ourselves?
Somewhere we live inside
Dreaming about Providence
And whether mice or men have second tries
Maybe we've been living with our eyes half open
Maybe we're bent and broken, broken
- Switchfoot "Meant to Live"
I always used to feel sorry for Sirius, after watching these little talks. He would sit as he always did, hands folded modestly in his lap, eyes downcast, unable, or unwanting, to look at his father. He would only meet his eyes when he was ordered to do so, as if in punishment, but it was swift and he would be studying the floor again in no time. And he was, without a doubt, the most beautiful boy I had ever seen in my life. Dark, actually abnormally dark eyes, framed by thick black lashes, smooth skin, with a beautiful olive undertone, but it was creamy on the surface. Lips which were a little too big for his face, often twisted quite cruelly, but they never lost their seductiveness. Cheeks that were hollowed to reveal sharp cheekbones, jutting out from underneath the dark, glossy hair that graced them. A tall, lithe frame, which made all his movements seem like liquid. Though he did, and I remember this quite fondly, at times stand up so quickly and violently that he looked as if he would lose his balance, though he never did. He would sit in his garden, on the little wire outdoor chair, brooding and smoking, as he often did, and suddenly without warning, he would stand up so quickly I worried he would fall, wait for a second and then walk briskly away, looking haughty and brooding all the while.
He didn't talk a lot, that I noticed quite early on. When introduced to people, he would shake their hand and fix them with a gaze from those beautiful dark eyes. I used to want to laugh as I watched grown men squirm under his gaze, and by the slight twitch at the sides of his mouth, I could tell he enjoyed it too. Though he was also well aware that it was as much a hindrance as it was help.
As a child, he came to me a lot. I would hear his little footsteps along the garden path and I would come to the front door and watch as he walked towards the door, head slightly downcast, as he looked up at me through thick lashes. Darling child. And I would greet him, "Well hello, Master Black, it is wonderful to see that you came, you're carriage is waiting". And he would grin and grab my hand as we went inside and I would put him up on the kitchen bench and feed him beef broth and shortbread. He spent ages up in my attic, sifting through the old things; paintings of my long dead family, old dusty chairs, hat stands (and he would, of course, try on all the hats while he was at it), and the endless trunks of old clothes. In my time, I had procured a vast amount of costumes, and the Master, as he would be known, would enjoy rifling through them and trying them on; occasionally wearing them in public with me. I remember seeing women smile and point at the darling little knight or prince. The prince costume was his personal favourite; it had beautiful beading on the trims and collar and had a darling little pair of court shoes with bows on them that matched. I remember, quite vividly despite my old age, a day when he went to a friend's fancy dress birthday party.
He must have been about six or seven, and he was to wear the prince costume. He came over to my house to get dressed and before he left, I insisted on taking a picture of him. "Now Master Black", I said. "Please pose nicely for the camera." And he stood there, and for some reason which is unknown to me, he shuffled his feet around so the toes were facing inward and he was pigeon toed and lowered his head and looked up at the camera, and scowled slightly. At this stage I lowered the camera and said, with a smile, "Master Black, I will get a smile out of you before your carriage leaves." And he raised his head and grinned, not a genuine, boyish grin, but a manic, demonic grin, which made him look like a demon prince. I was hysterical with laughter and I'm not sure how I did it, because my hands must have been shaking a lot, but I took the picture, and it now sits, in it's rightful place, on the wall in the dining room.
He went to Hogwarts, as everyone does, when he was 11 and from then on I missed him terribly. But without fail, every holiday, he would come over and see me and tell me the events of the past year. (Well, not all of them, I'm sure of that). He made friends quickly, I was glad of that, especially with another boy named James. They became best friends, though I never met him. (Sirius never had friends over; his father was a likely reason.) I always suspected that they were more than friends, but I never asked. I didn't want to push him away from me, when I loved him so dearly.
From the exterior, the Black family were a well-off, quite famous and pureblood family. They prided themselves in their bloodline; sometimes I thought the only reason Luella and Tobias let Sirius visit my house was because I was pureblood also. The entire family sadly seemed a little too proud of their blood, though this was a trait Sirius never possessed. He never seemed very fond of his family; the few times I'd seen him with his cousins, he they seemed to annoy him, and he would often sit alone, and in silence. I never asked him questions about these behaviours; I did not want to push him away from me and it seemed that incessant personal questions would. Though he gave me the reasons soon enough. His immediate family were picture perfect. Orion worked in the Ministry, quite high up I if remember correctly. And Cygnus, well, I doubt if she'd done a days work in her life. She was a pretty young thing though, long dark hair, and dark eyes, reminiscent of Sirius, though her face never had the grace or fullness that his did, the appeal, the ease to look at, I suppose you could say.
Orion, I know the Orion I saw, but whether it was the same man Sirius saw, I doubt very much. He was clipped and well mannered, always shook my hand briskly, hard jaw always set in place. He was very good looking, the same dark looks as his son, but his face was harsher, more masculine, even after Sirius had grown up. He struck me as a strict man, but not excessively cruel or demeaning, which I later found out he was both. Oh, there was another Black boy too, the younger, Regulus. Yes, that was him. Four years younger than Sirius, yes, that's right. Pretty, but never as pretty as Sirius. It was as if the gods had favoured the older brother over Regulus, in the manner of looks. Sirius' face was perfectly proportioned, but Regulus' features were a little unfitting. He was still beautiful, just not as beautiful as Sirius. I never really knew Regulus; he didn't come over and see me, like the other did. He seemed to be a bit of a loner, not out of choice by Sirius, but the fact that I don't think he was loved by anyone, and seemed to be ignored by his parents. Sirius never consoled or spent time with him, but then again, the brothers never struck me as close. And the family was never close.
Orion, of what Sirius has told me, and I believe him completely, was a very harsh man. Where Regulus was ignored, Sirius had masses of unwanted attention laid upon him. He was watched constantly, often not let out of his father's sight. It was as if their father only had enough love for one son, and in this unfortunate case, it was Sirius. He was constantly corrected on everything; nothing he did was right , no matter how hard he tried. And Sirius often lost it, swore at his father and went to walk away, only to come face to face with a menacing Orion. Orion poured all his time into making Sirius into, what he saw as 'a good man'. 'Character building', it was described to Sirius as. Though I'm sure he greatly disagreed. The hour-long lectures, the constant watching, the intrusion of privacy, the sex; it wore him down so much. The sex was probably the worst part. Where in normal life Orion was harsh and sometimes cruel, his sex was gentle, loving and incestuous. He would come into Sirius' room in the evening (and it was always the evening, I have no idea why), and he would press Sirius gently onto the bed with the loving kisses, and his hands would roam Sirius' body until they finally rested on his crotch. But with this came the compliments which made the boy hate himself more. As Orion molested Sirius, he would whisper in his ear. "You're beautiful, my beautiful little china doll", "Mice and men, Sirius, mice and men, show me you're a man". And the boy would submit, and just lie there while it was happening, all dead eyed and hurt. He blamed himself for not stopping his father, but what could he have done? Orion was a man who wouldn't take no for an answer, and his strength far outweighed Sirius'.
I used to thank god he wasn't violently raping Sirius, but in a way what he was doing was worse. The gentle touch, the deep kisses, the compliments, they all scarred Sirius deeper than any physical wound would. Not that he wasn't bashed, no he had his share of cuts and bruises too. Sirius began taking drugs when he was 15, and when Orion found out about it, he was murderous. "Mice and men", she screamed at Sirius, who ignored him. "You're a fucking mouse, you little shit, a fucking mouse". "Look at me", he bellowed. And Sirius couldn't and then he beat Sirius so badly he couldn't stand. He lay there, beaten and broken on the floor for too long, before Orion healed him. He couldn't bear to see Sirius' beauty all bloodied and bruised like that. These incidents didn't happen very often, but regardless they happened, and Sirius was all the more worse off for it. After the beatings, in the early morning, when Sirius was sleeping, Orion would come into his room and lie next to him. And he would cry, sobbing softly and apologising. "I've been a terrible father Sirius, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please forgive me". And he'd find Sirius' face in the dark and stroke it so gently, so lovingly, and kiss his cheeks to softly, that Sirius, with tears in his eyes would crack, and walk to the park, where he sat until the sun broke over the horizon. And when he got back to the house, his father was himself again.
How did I know all this? Sirius told me, when he was 16, and after he'd left his family, and subsequently been disowned. He explained everything too me so that I understood and thanked me for not asking him questions when he was young, for that surely would have killed him. His parents never spoke of him afterwards; it was as if he had never existed. He still saw me, even up until he went missing. People that knew the Blacks ask me if I knew Sirius, the infamous mass murderer, and I say that I have never met him in my life. And I haven't. The Sirius Black they locked in Azkaban isn't the one I knew, the beauty, the demon prince. They aren't the same person. The Sirius I knew and loved is not that man.
The photograph of the little Black boy, Sirius, hangs on the wall in the dining room, in a large gold frame. The picture has deteriorated little; the dark of the hair is still as rich, the white of the teeth still as stark. The little boy in the prince costume, beading glinting in the sun and manic smile in place, still as beautiful. And on the frame, on the bottom centre, if you look closely, are the intricately carved words of a forgotten time: Mice and men aren't that different after all.