Disclaimer: The Holloway Rod was snatched up from TheDivineComedian's stash of dark magical artifacts. The Dog is inspired by Dai, my resident Padfoot, although he's spoiled rotten, so not at all like his fictional counterpart. Remuswolf is inspired by Tai, who acts like him a lot, and any injuries and pissing contests and raw meat quarrels are the result of careful observation of these two over the years.

About this fic: This is a sister fic to Thirteen Moons and prequel to Runaway, and it's a five-parter in Sirius' point of view. It covers what happens from the last time Sirius sees Orion and until he returns to Hogwarts after the burial, so: BLACK WARNINGS throughout, their very special brand of child abuse is not really glossed over here and there's all sorts of other warnings ranging from suicidal thoughts, to self-harm, memory-tampering, denial, lots of teenage angst and physical and psychological torture like only the Blacks can dish out. Also, Sirius sometimes makes little sense in his perceptions and goes bananas a couple of times. So, basically business as usual at the Blacks.

It's an exploration into the whole "the Blacks think they're royalty" thing, only in the Runaway AU they actually kind of are, mostly because I like the idea of people grovelling at Sirius' feet and calling him Lord.

That, and I really, really wanted to kill Orion in an ugly and nasty way and justify the whole tapestry burning thing and my take on Walburga going nutso thing, which are both major upcoming events in Runaway, but they're also largely brought about by the last few days Sirius spent around his loving and supportive dad in November 1973, which have been mentioned in Runaway already. It's basically not a happy fic.

In this chapter: Three days after he turns fourteen, Sirius Black is called home, allegedly to say his final goodbyes before he turns into a werewolf.

One month later, Orion Black is dead, and Sirius has no choice but take up a mantle he doesn't want, and along with it, a nice fat bullseye on his head. He realises why he wasn't allowed to turn down the Ring of the Blacks: for that to happen, he must die.

Not twenty-four hours into the Succession, he's seriously considering it as an option.

Life is unfair like that.

Dedication: to all you Sirius fans who have stuck around with Runaway for so long.

Acknowledgments: Again, thanks to TheDivineComedian for continuing to inspire me to write dark, nasty stuff and letting me use her Holloway Rods. And to Bambi59 aka Shayde123, for putting up with brain fries and having to read every last version of it and listen to me whine about stuff for days on end. These stories wouldn't even exist without her help, because I could never put my ducks in a row.

Succession

By

DracoNunquamDormiens

Prelude: Primogenitus

Three days after he turns fourteen, one Sirius Black is given special permission to go home by the host of St. Mungo's Healers coming by the Hogwarts Hospital Wing every day. They tell him it's so he can say his last goodbyes to his parents, or some such nonsense.

Sirius is tempted to laugh in their faces.

They claim they're here to help him, but he isn't fooled: they're experimenting on him.

At least, he thinks wryly, they're being nice about it.

They are being nice, because they think he was bitten by a werewolf almost a month ago.

They're right, of course.

He was bitten by a werewolf.

A very large, very annoyed one he's decided to call Moony, who comes around every spare moment he gets, usually bringing a stack of notes for him to study. Sirius thinks that it's Remus's way of getting revenge on him, for not telling him that he managed to become an Animagus before he visited him in the Shrieking Shack on the last full moon.

In his defence, Sirius wanted it to be a surprise. And Remus is way too territorial.

It clearly backfired, but it doesn't make it any less brilliant in his eyes; he's worked his arse off for it since First Year, and the Dog is, hands down, the best that's ever happened to him. Even if there'll be hell to pay for it, for the past three or so weeks Sirius has successfully managed to ignore the rising dread in the pit of his stomach, and the Healers at least, keep him nicely distracted.

They are being especially nice to him, because they think he'll turn on the full moon, and the Ministry's Disposal Squad will kill him then.

Sirius believes that if they want to kill him sooner, sending him home is just about the surest way to do it.

He has told them — all of them, except for his closest friends — that it was a dog, but they just pat him on the head, or ruffle his hair — he hates that — and give him condescending looks, as though he's in denial.

If he tells them the truth, though, Remus will be put down and he'll get sent to Azkaban for being an unregistered Animagus. So, obviously, he maintains left, right and centre that it's a dog bite and they're blowing it out of proportion, acts the part of the perfect little patient, lets them poke and prod and stick silver bars into him, and builds up wall after wall to get past the daily Legilimency tests Dumbledore puts him through — arguably the riskiest part of this whole deal.

Sirius is well aware Dumbledore suspects it might have been Remus who bit him.

Again, he wouldn't be wrong.

They're friends, after all, and knowing him, it's not really a stretch to suspect he's gone to the Whomping Willow to see why Remus vanishes under its roots once a month. So far, Sirius is fairly certain he's given the Headmaster nothing, but every morning Dumbledore pops by, still unconvinced.

Sirius does the only thing he can, feeds the Hogwarts Head images carefully crafted from recent memory during the long hours spent preparing for these sessions.

The moon is waxing, and the Healers still prod and poke at the now rather lumpy, mostly-closed wounds on his side, check that the various other cuts where they put in the silver are healing — which hurts like Mother — and while that alone proves he's not about to turn into a wolf, they claim they still can't be sure. There is, perplexingly, still too much canine in his bloodstream, and to be honest, Sirius thinks it's really interesting to find out the Animagus transformation goes that deep.

He is as curious as the Healers to see the results of the host of magical tests, and though most aren't what he'd call comfortable by any stretch, he doesn't mind putting up with any of that, he really doesn't, and he has the School Nurse to thank for it — Poops realised early on he isn't about to turn, and the instant the Healers clear off, she treats him more like a guest than a patient. She even lets Remus take him for walkies every day after lunch. Sirius suspects she puts rather too much trust in his friend, but he celebrates every minute he gets to be outdoors, gets to put his tail on, gets to remember why he's doing this at all.

And yes, it's all worth it.

Until those friendly Healers announce on Bonfire Night that he "gets to" go home, as if it's a treat.

Then he begins to worry.

If he weren't a Black, he wouldn't be allowed to leave the Contagion Room at all. The Healers would fear he'd run away or suddenly develop the urge to chew on innocent passers-by, but when Orion Black orders something, the entire world is expected to bend over backwards to give him whatever he wants, expediently and without question.

And the world does exactly that, without fail, so even if he's mostly confined to the Contagion Room and generally considered to be a danger to be around, they decide to bend the rules to breaking point and let him go to London for a day or two.

They could just have asked Father to come over. They probably even did, but Sirius is well aware what he's wanted in London for and why. It would not go over well in public, and the explanation for it is painfully simple: Father has found out that Sirius won't turn.

Sirius is not really surprised.

While he's known all along his parents would find out along with the rest of the world, Sirius has been counting on getting this last week to prepare for it. He has to admit, to himself if no-one else, he's not ready to see them again. It's too soon.

He's sure Regulus told them; not out of any desire to land him in the hot seat — and there is just one such seat in Father's Library — but because his little brother, for all that he's the perfect Slytherin, is incredibly naive still. He sees Father and Mother and their immediate family in a different light, he thinks the world of them and trusts them blindly.

Incidentally, Sirius is sure Regulus also still believes in Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny.

He simply has no idea, and Sirius won't be the one to set his perceptions straight.

No matter how much Sirius would like to, he can't even bring himself to be angry at Reggie. Because it's Reggie, and Sirius would gladly go through Hell and back for him, like he's done all his life. Or because of him, like he suspects he will in a few moments' time.

He suspects Mother shed a crocodile tear or two and Reg caved, like he always does. Probably thought he was doing all of them a favour, interceding for his big brother. Helping. Sirius can't fault him for it — Regulus is not the bloody Black Heir. He lives by a different set of rules, and in the House of Black, that means he might as well be living on a different planet.

Reg's responsibilities to the House of Black limit themselves to surviving Sirius in case he leaves no offspring and marrying well. Sirius sometimes wishes their roles were reversed; he doesn't ever want to become The Black. Reg would shine in that position. He is the perfect wizard for the job.

Sirius… isn't.

Even Gnasher, Father's personal elf, knows it. He brings a package of clothes with him — Gryffindor robes are not allowed anywhere in the Black household — and makes to help him change.

"Get out of here, I can manage," Sirius snaps, tosses the package on his bed.

Gnasher grits his teeth loudly and gives him an insolent grin. Sirius aims a kick at the elf, and it's gone with a sound like a firecracker.

Sirius glares at his clothes as though they're to blame. He's definitely not cut out for this. He's just The Fuck-Up who ought to have died, preferably before he learnt to speak and shattered the Blacks' hopes and pride. He'll be reminded of the fact as soon as he gets these blasted dress robes on — no casual attire for him, like, ever — with this butt-ugly green tie Mother sent over.

He's pretty sure it'll choke him if he lingers even a second after he's put it on, so he doesn't touch it until he's fairly sure he's got a good enough grip on his Occlumency walls — a cinch — and a good enough grip on his temper — flimsy at best, dammit.

Launcelot's claws are digging into his shoulder. He's tempted to leave him here, but he can't; so far, the owl has been the only one who's managed to keep him from accidentally going dog, and even though Sirius would like nothing more than sprout fangs and give Father a good bite in his smug face, he can't risk getting found out — forget Saturday's moon, he'd get killed on the spot.

Just when being him had begun to be fun.

He only takes his wand, muttering furiously to himself when he has no choice but to knot the poisonous-looking tie around his neck — it's worse than a choking tie, the pattern of thorns embroidered in silver thread isn't there just for decoration.

"Blast," Sirius hisses furiously, now deciding he'll go without the damned thing and trying to undo the double Windsor, but of course, it won't give.

He's so absorbed trying to loosen the tie, he doesn't realise Remus is standing not six feet away, probably wondering why Sirius looks like he's about to spend the afternoon at the opera rather than the forest, like they usually do.

"I bet it was Regulus," he informs Remus furiously, "He can't ever bloody lie to her, and I'm sure she bloody went and —" and Remus has not a clue what goes on in Mother's town house. He's taken great care not to let anyone know, because it's embarrassing and depressing and the last thing he wants to bring to Hogwarts. Even his own blood-brother has been shut out from his head until further notice, so he decides to elaborate with a very informative, "Gah. See you in a couple of days."

Or not at all, Remus, have a good life, he wants to add, but he bites his tongue. That would just be overdramatising.

Father's personal elf appears the next instant to pick him up — of course Black household elves can side-along apparate him from Hogwarts — and Sirius is gone with a bang before he can hear what Remus has to say in return.

By the time his polished shoes hit the equally polished floor outside Father's Library and personal torture chamber, Remus and Hogwarts and the rest of the world are shunted to the farthest corner of Sirius's mind.

He takes a deep breath, makes sure his Occlumency is on point, that all the dread and anger he's feeling are at least gone from his expression, and reminds himself why he's here at all. Focus, so Uncle Alfie has told him a million times, is everything.

And now that blasted elf, Gnasher, is doing that thing its name suggests, which only irritates Sirius further. He has no choice but to face his irate father, decides at the last minute Launcelot doesn't need to be a part of this, after all.

Sod it, if he bites Father's throat off he'd be doing the bloody world a service.

There is certainly a moment, as he's watching his owl flutter gratefully to his room, where his dread of what will surely come outweighs his anger at the whole situation. But it's only an instant, and like any instant, it is too fleeting to kick his survival instinct into gear.

Even if it did, he'd probably ignore it; he always does.

As every time he's set foot in that accursed Library since he turned eight, he's going in for a fight — and it's always, always a losing battle, one he cannot, for the life of him, ever win.

Not for lack of trying, though.

He heaves a sigh, knocks — and is yanked inside no sooner has the door opened. Father, apparently, is in a hurry to see him. Oh, and he's brought Mother in to watch.

"You wanted to see me," Sirius responds to the looks he's getting, which seem to be asking why he's here at all. To be fair, they are probably wondering why he's still walking the earth rather than why he's in the house.

"Want is such a strong word," Father says, his eyes boring into Sirius' with disgust.

"That's me as well," Sirius replies.

"Shut up." And he's being directed to his usual spot on the ugly green Persian rug with a grunt. As he goes, Sirius wonders what he hates most about this whole farce, decides his walls do need some reinforcing, after all.

Father strides around him imperiously, exposes his every last displeasure with the greatest detail, and Mother helpfully provides some depth and insight when it gets confusing for Sirius's addled little brain. And just in case he's been rendered hard of hearing since the end of the Summer holidays, they are also getting louder with every passing moment.

It all goes down as he'd suspected: They have realised he won't turn on Saturday and they're predictably furious at being made fools of.

As Sirius points out, that's their own damn fault — he distinctly remembers telling them he wouldn't turn, or something to that effect. He can't remember what he said exactly, what with the haze of pain and all. It hardly matters, as Father helpfully provides: he recognised the bite for what it was — is — and he thought it was a cert. Because evidently, being The Black requires knowing what a werewolf bite looks like at a glance, and Sirius doesn't want to know how Father came by his expertise.

Part of him understands his parents' frustration at some twisted level and can't blame them for holding out hope. It would be the perfect ending for him in their eyes, the family fuck-up just fucked up one time too many and predictably, got himself beheaded. "Yes, we are devastated, but what can you do? Ministry regulations regarding werewolves are ever so strict."

He's sure they even had their little speeches prepared and everything, his headstone picked out, the catering for the ensuing dinner party booked, invitations ready to be sent to all the big guns of Wizarding Society. He's sure Mother has spent the past week at wine tastings and picking out the hors d'oeuvres, and since the last moon, Father has been making grandiose plans to groom Regulus, so he'll fit into his shoes when the time comes.

And now Sirius has gone and done it and ruined their plans for the weekend.

He wasn't wrong — their expressions when he confirms he won't turn into a furry rage monster this Saturday are almost as priceless as he'd hoped.

Only… they're also underwhelming. He'd hoped for more shock, on getting a laugh from it, at least.

Worse still, someone went and blabbed to the press — they have no clue who did it, but of course they think it was him — and this morning's paper held a column filled with humiliation and scandal for them both.

Sirius remembers the article, he read it this morning. It was a sob story about the Blacks losing their heir on Saturday, which played right into their plans. It also told the Wizarding World how Orion had decided to have him put down the instant he learnt of his "accident" — which didn't.

Then it's all, "how can you be so foolish", and "do you have to advertise your idiocy to the world?" and, "you bring nothing but ridicule to this House," and, "you can't even get a wolf bite right," and "why can't you be more like your brother? He's only eleven and he's already a greater pride to us than you have been in fourteen years," and countless other things Sirius tunes out as best he can. He lets the rant wash over him — every demeaning word, every insult, every fault — with a slight frown on his face. He's still trying to decide what he hates most about this place, this House, his parents, while in the background, the real battle is being waged, mortar and bricks and nothing.

It's like a riptide, an undercurrent that could drown you if you're not careful, one that will slam you around the ocean floor before it spits you out in bits… or pulls you into the depths and kills you. Or feeds you to a shark.

Behind Father's unforgiving stare, Sirius's Occlumency is taking a beating he's barely able to repel. Mind war, that's the only kind of battle he always wins. It's not as if Father cares what he finds, nothing Sirius could ever do would be enough to not warrant punishment, and this is no different.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" Father ends his diatribe.

"Me?" Sirius asks back, and it's half a growl. "I told you it was a dog that bit me, but you wouldn't believe me, would you? You were too caught up hoping I'd get put down by the full moon that you didn't even stop to consider I was telling you the bloody truth!"

Whoops. That came out a bit too honest, Sirius thinks as he's sailing backwards into a bookshelf, his face stinging hotly. He all but leaps to his feet, and damn — the Dog wants out. He doesn't let it. Wonders why.

"You're just pissed off because you made a fool of yourself!" he snaps instead. It sounds like a bark. "You don't need me to ridicule this House, you do a pretty good job of it alone. This once — not my fault."

"YOU SPOKE TO THE PAPERS!" Father roars. "It's not enough to be a relentless source of shame to this House, you also have to publicly humiliate us! Humiliate us and do the one thing you are never to do!"

"I did no such thing!" Sirius shouts back, more affronted than he'd expected. "There's twenty bloody Healers in and out of the castle every blasted day, is it really so impossible to think that one of them might have done it? Are you really that blind or just plain THICK?" And damn — he's gone and done it again and opened his mouth a tad too much for Father's already non-existent tolerance.

"Do not speak to your father like that!" He's quite forgotten about Mother, but the sudden constriction around his neck, those thorns digging into flesh, is quite an effective reminder. "You are the Heir to this House, so stop acting like an ungrateful little brat!"

"Yeah? You can take that bloody job and stick it up your ar— oof." snaps Sirius, or tries to; it comes out strangled and the effect he'd intended is lost. The next moment he's picking himself up from the floor again, but — and this makes his frustration only grow into outright rage — that isn't quite working out, either.

His right leg won't respond, and isn't this the perfect time for it to make things awkward, he thinks nonsensically, as pain shoots up all the way to his lungs and makes what little he'd managed to gasp in rush back out. Black blobs swimming around his vision, he pulls himself up by one of the shelves.

"Let me make it really simple for you both —" he spits out furiously. "I quit. I don't want to be your bloody heir." Something tells him it's not the first time he's quit, or tried to, but doesn't stop to wonder about it. "Just give the job to Reg and leave me the fuck al—"

.

.

Sirius finds himself staring at the canopy of his bed, where an oddly familiar coat of arms is coming reluctantly into focus. Some indeterminate amount of time later, it hits him: this isn't where he remembers being last.

Hadn't that little bastard Gnasher been around? Or did he imagine it?

He squints at the magical calendar on his bedside table.

Tuesday, November 6.

Huh.

Isn't he supposed to be at school? The thought brings flashes of memory, disconnected images mostly, to his mind. His side is bandaged too, and a peek underneath the dressing jogs his memory far better.

So, brain, what the hexing hell am I doing in London?

His brain shrugs, but it must know something — it's clearing out the rubble, rebuilding walls, mapping out a maze for any intruders to get lost in.

Everything sears and throbs and aches when he sits up dizzily, looks himself over with a frown. Outwardly, there doesn't seem to be anything wrong… until he gets out of bed. His right leg won't carry his weight, he notes with a deep sort of confusion as he's suddenly crashing down.

He looks it over, but other than hurting like Mother, he can't find a reason for it to not work as it should. Then again, he might be imagining things. Maybe he's just having a nightmare again. They often start like this.

There is definitely a strange, dream-like quality to the world just now, and when he finally manages to reach his bathroom and stares into the mirror, he does so for ages before it hits him — the face he's looking at is his own, and he's not dreaming.

"Caught on, have you?" the mirror asks in a bored drawl.

Sirius opens the window for Launcelot to go outside and then goes down to breakfast slowly, taking care to step on his leg just so, because it's reluctant as anything to do its job and take him places. Sirius isn't sure what happened. Maybe he slept wrong, he thinks, holding on to the banister to steady himself.

He reaches the breakfast room, sits down at his usual place, begins to butter a slice of toast.

"What are you doing here?" Father is reading the Prophet, and Sirius stares at it for a while before he realises he ought to formulate a response.

"Eating."

"Who gave him the knitbone?" Father wants to know. Sirius vaguely remembers its a herb.

"Nobody gave me anything. I just woke up."

"Shut up, boy."

He shrugs, lets Father boom and yell at whoever did whatever, watches dazedly as he's told nobody gave him anything, booms and rants some more.

Sirius's attention is on his table setting, where his breakfast is about to arrive. He's starving, and the smell of it is heavenly as it approaches— oh.

Sirius looks at the plate Kreacher has just placed in front of him with an exaggerated bow, his mood dropping again. Rather than frustrated, he feels downright crestfallen. Usually he needs more than a sniff to pick apart whether something is edible, but since the Summer, his nose has grown incredibly informative, and he's acquired a large database of what some hexes smell like.

The Full English looks and smells delicious, on the surface it looks perfectly prepared, just the way he can't resist, and he's starving... but he can't eat it, not this.

He decides mournfully that he can hold off another day or two, don't they put some of the milder hexes on it every three or so days so he won't outright starve, or maybe they've caught on that sometimes he's desperate enough to consider it's worth it to put up with a cramping charm, or a temporary deafness hex, or sprout boils, just to get to eat whatever is in front of him? Charming hexes and poisons off a meal is still beyond his abilities, but Sirius resolves he'll bridge that particular gap when he's back at school.

Is it such a wonder he loves playing pranks on people, when his parents do it all the time, when even the bloody elves usually get one up on him here?

He's never been denied food, after all. It's only just mostly cursed, poisoned, hexed, or all three. It's his own fault when he eats it.

"What is it?" Father asks, looking at him from over the rim of his paper.

"Projectile vomiting hex," Sirius answers, reaches for the toast with a sigh. "May I be excused?"

"You shouldn't even be here," is the answer. Father is still annoyed, apparently. Sirius isn't entirely sure why, but then… he's always annoyed. "Get out of my sight. Library, now."

Not annoyed, then. Proper cross and everything.

Sirius nibbles on his toast as he carefully leaves the breakfast parlour, wondering where the previous day went. He's sure something happened. Something important.

It happens often here, he's lost entire weeks' worth of days, as though Grimmauld Place is a black hole, and wouldn't it be fitting if it actually were, he can just bet his parents would be indecently proud to have defined any and all inflections and uses of the word Black, from Blackmail to Black Magic to Black Death and Black holes and everything else dark and nasty and all-consuming in between.

That's also what his memory does, isn't it. Go black.

He doesn't get to the Library right away.

Mother intercepts him on her way to breakfast, wishes him a good morning as lovingly as only she knows. She's fuming, and again Sirius wonders why that is this time, as he's sailing across the second-floor landing. It could be any number of things— oh. The werewolf bite, as she's kind enough to remind him.

"Why did you lie to us?!"

"I told you it wasn't a bloody wolf!" Sirius shouts back, his anger back full force. "It's not my bloody fault you didn't believe me and went to town with it, Mother. Joke's still on you."

They're terrible sports, he thinks when the curse hits him. He doesn't think anything except pain pain hurt for a while, and as he's lying there twitching and hating and furious, he wonders how many Cruciatus he'll have to put up with before his entire nervous system is fried and he can't feel pain anymore.

One less than last night, his brain supplies, and he laughs despite himself.

It's the wrong thing to do.

"Go to the Library," Mother snaps, lifting the curse a second time, and he sits up, all jerky movements and trembling limbs, tries to get his head to stop spinning. If Mother hadn't turned her back on him just then, she'd have seen the snarl on his face, the fangs he's bared out of reflex. It takes a while, but in the end he drags himself to the place he arguably has spent more time in than anywhere else in the house.

But life here is like that, and he tries to think back on a time when it wasn't, finds more black holes than any galaxy could contain.

He can't go into the Library without at least a few deep breaths, much less with a spinning head, he knows that much as intimately as he knows how to breathe. Probably even better, but deep breaths do nothing to steady him this time, and that too, is frustrating.

When he gives up on breathing, he walks in as straight as he can even if his leg is rather more unstable than before — there's a strange grating sensation every time he gingerly puts weight on it, an odd wobble, as if it will snap in two if he isn't careful — and faces Father, who is at his desk, fingers steepled under his nose.

Orion's Legilimency isn't subtle like Dumbledore's - it's a bloody cannon that hits you in the head, doesn't pick thoughts apart carefully to find what he seeks, no — he uses a bloody shovel, doesn't care what he rifles through as long as he finds exactly… nothing, because that's what Sirius has given him for almost six years now, every time. And as long as he can keep his walls up, that's pretty much what Father will be getting.

His newest one shatters and crumbles into rubble, and he wonders if Mother was waiting to ambush him earlier just to help Father along, and Sirius isn't sure just now why he does it, but it's immensely important not to give an inch, so he just... doesn't.

Father isn't happy about it at all. Then again, the bastard isn't ever happy about anything.

"What bit you?" he shouts, makes Sirius jump. He's also terribly helpful like that, and suddenly Sirius knows exactly what he's getting at. It's like yesterday suddenly reconstructs itself, not entirely — but his mind provides the highlights, even as it's adding mortar and bricks to his other walls in a hurry.

"A dog," he tells him, annoyance coating his words.

"No dog leaves marks like that!"

"It was a large dog, ever think of that?" Sirius offers irreverently.

"So, you won't turn."

"No, sorry." It's not an apology.

"Why didn't you tell me? You brought shame on us. Ridicule. Now the papers caught wind of it—"

"You think I went to the papers." Sirius scoffs, rolls his eyes. Father hates that.

"Someone did, and we could have prevented it if you had just told us! Instead we find out through your brother!"

So it was Reg. That blabbermouth. He can't lie to them to save his life — or Sirius's, just now — and Sirius honestly still can't bring himself to be mad at him.

When he's sent to fetch the Cutting Cane a moment later, though, Sirius is tempted to revise that last.

He grits his teeth to keep from wincing — he's not imagining things, his leg is grating against itself — but he does fetch the bloody thing from the rack by the fireplace and for a moment he is grateful it's not the one next to it.

He hates the Holloway Rod with a passion, but there's something that's unusual about it. It isn't giving out its usual greedy, hungry hum. It's just… angry. The thing is full up, Sirius realises, and that tells him he's not getting the Rod only because it's already happened.

He places the cane on top of his father's desk before he knows what he's doing, stares at its surface. Shouldn't it be white, though? Red means…

"I missed something."

"It'll come to you," says his father confidently.

Sirius frowns at it, tries to do an inward tally of his system, but he's still reeling from the Cruciatus — everything hurts, everything will cramp up. It's ridiculous, and he chuckles softly at the irony of it: he's too fried to even manage to dissect what hurts where and why.

"What's funny?" asks Father, stepping around his desk.

"This whole… thing," Sirius answers. "You and your ridiculous obsession with keeping up appearances. The Black, all hear his name and tremble, right? You're just an old wizard terrified of what people will say about you, you're scared of them laughing at you."

"Go on." It's casual enough, even curious. It's also a threat Sirius decides to ignore.

"That's the gist of it, isn't it? All this blood purity bullshit, you don't even believe it. It just gives you a lie to hide behind, something to hold over other people's heads, and you've lied so much to yourself you actually believe you are better than everyone else, until something happens and sets your perceptions straight. But all you are," he runs one finger along the Cutting Cane, hisses at the slice, brings his bleeding finger to his mouth. "All you are is a butcher who can't even get a point across using his own words. Mugwump, indeed. Who was the unzipped moron who let you loose in the International Wizarding Council, I wonder. Someone wanting to collect a bribe? Or did you threaten them like you did the Wizengamot?"

"Take off your shirt," his father says coldly.

Sirius does, and for an instant, as his blood is running cold with dread, he thinks, he did go a bit too far after all.

In for a Knut, in for a Galleon, though.

"And what is that going to accomplish?" he asks. "Do you think it'll finally do what you've been trying for years and turn me into a proper Black? Admit it, all you want is a punching bag because you're to chicken shite to go against anyone your size."

"Bend over the table and grip the end."

"Enjoy it while it lasts, Father. Maybe you'll even come up with a good enough reason for it sometime."

"You are a shame to this House!" His father erupts. "What more reason could I have?"

"And beating me bloody will somehow make me less of an embarrassment?" Sirius laughs, shakes his head. "It hasn't worked for years—"

"Your station— your heritage — those things you spit on with your every breath, with your bloody idiotic stunts. YOU GO AGAINST OUR EVERY TRADITION! I WILL TEACH YOU RESPECT IF IT'S THE LAST THING I DO!"

Sirius can't get in a word edgewise — mostly because there is a crack with every other word, a crack that burns hot and blossoms into a red-hot sort of pain that goes beyond just skin, knocks all the air out of his lungs so hard he couldn't have cried out even if he'd wanted to give Father the satisfaction.

"YOU ARE A BLACK!" Orion bellows, and four more lashes streak across his back, burning sharply. "YOU ARE MY HEIR AND YOU ARE A SHAME TO ME AND TO THIS HOUSE!"

Sirius grits his teeth, mind reeling along with the rest of him, the Dog wanting out, to rip that bloody Cane, the hand holding it, to shreds.

And why does he even hold back?

He doesn't know.

I'm so sick of this, he thinks.

"Do you think I enjoy it, boy?"

Maybe he said it aloud.

Yeah. Yeah, he did.

"You're too enthusiastic not to." It's a wheeze, and Sirius isn't sure why, but suddenly he's turning around to face his father. To bite him, or lunge, or something — he's not sure what.

Orion is clearly surprised by it. He takes a step back.

"Enjoy it while you still can," Sirius snaps, pushes himself off the edge of that bloody desk with a growl. "Because someday, someday soon, you'll be gone, and when you're getting buried, all your precious traditions, your mindless purebred drivel, your fucking House, all of it will get buried with you. I'LL BURN IT TO THE GROUND, CANES AND RODS AND WANDS AND ALL, ALL TWO THOUSAND YEARS OF HISTORY OF IT, AND NOBODY WILL EVEN REMEMBER YOUR FUCKING NAME WHEN I'M DONE! So, go for it, Father!" he prompts, spreads his arms wide. "I'm pretty sure you missed a spot—"

He's suddenly on the floor, and what's raining down on him isn't the Cane anymore. The crack is replaced by a sound like a Muggle gunshot, followed by a warm sensation that grows into agony, and he's suddenly covering his sharply searing head and curling up to make himself as small a target as possible. This is new, and when he chances a look at Father, he can see he is apoplectic.

This is it, then, Sirius thinks. He's going to kill me this time.

It's a welcome change, at this point.

He's pondering what his last words should be — properly defiant, maybe even haunting — when the world shuts off.

.

.

Sirius tastes blood when the world comes into a very blurry existence again.

He doesn't pass out often, but it's a time for firsts, isn't it.

Father is smoking a cigar, not in his leather armchair but next to him on the rug Sirius knows so intimately. He can recall at least a dozen times, all of a sudden, when he's had the same plush fibres blocking his nostrils, getting into his mouth when he can hardly breathe, his field of vision taken up by Father's shoes. By other shoes that aren't Father's… And then he's sure he's hallucinating, because he remembers red eyes, and the smell of brandy, and laughter and fear and nothing.

His brain seems to have decided this isn't the proper course for his thoughts, and he's suddenly focused on spitting out fibres from the rug. They're the damnedest things in this blasted house. Not even the decor can be accommodating.

"I don't want to hear you say anything like that ever again," Father states, every word carefully measured, perfectly articulated, so he won't miss a single one. Or the threat behind them. "That was tantamount to treason."

"Go deaf then," Sirius grits out, spits out another few threads. The world is tilting and swimming and alternately hot and cold. His head feels rather too large, like a balloon about to burst, and if he only could open his eyes properly, he'd maybe even manage to make sense of what's going on.

"You can kiss my arse. You can also go fuck yourself, along with all the bloody Blacks. If it's ever up to me, things here will be nothing like this, I'll become something as far away from this, from you, as I can make it." His tongue keeps getting stuck trying to form the words, but a squint tells him there's a vein going in Father's temple, tells him his point is getting across.

"Enjoy your House of Black while it lasts, Father. It will die with you. Your traditions will die with you, and I'll take a match to everything you stand for, burn it all down. Maybe I'll just spark up an Eternal Flame, right here on this bloody rug, bring some proper light in."

"Is that a threat, boy?"

"It's something," Sirius slurs. The world is seesawing, and he's too tired to fight it. "A promise." He'll get to it… after a nap. Yes. he closes his eyes, gives up on trying to get up at all.

"I'll just obliviate you again."

"You did that yesterday, how is that working for you?" he slurs out placidly.

"Obliv—"

.

.

Sirius wakes up in his bed, face down and hurting all over. Worst of all is his head, though. For an instant, he thinks, that last Beater practice went south so badly, and, how many Bludgers were there this time?

The calendar, though, is the one he's got in his room in London.

What's even more confusing is, it reads, November 7.

All Sirius can think of, though, is, Gubraithian Fire. Mortar and bricks and a maze around nothing, nothing, nothing.

Maybe it's high time he learnt to spell up an Eternal Flame. Might come in handy sometime.

He doesn't bother going to the breakfast room today. It's too far of a walk, though calling what he's doing "walking" would be a gross exaggeration. He hobbles straight to the Library instead, not quite aware of what he's doing until he's standing in front of the rack. The Rod radiates contentment, the Cane is dripping. Sirius puzzles over it for a second, then dismisses it. Picks out the Seizing Strap, just to give it variety, tosses it on the mahogany desk. One of its metal edges scratches the surface.

Whoops.

Father finds him reading. Reading and mortar and bricks and walls and a maze around nothing, nothing, nothing. Sirius ignores him, though the Dog's hackles are rising.

"What's that?" Father wants to know.

Sirius smirks, "Gubraithian Fire. It doesn't look like it's all that hard to make."

He doesn't get any farther than that.

.

.

November 8, when he manages to focus enough to make out the date.

Sirius knows he ought to be at school. He looks at the fat moon setting over London from his bedroom window, doesn't even wonder why he wants to hit (or even better, bite) things anymore. He's sure there's a reason, and he trusts the Dog better than he does himself.

Launcelot flutters onto his shoulder, his feathers on end.

He's missed something.

"Go," says Sirius, when he's managed to make it to the window at an oddly unstable shuffle. "And if I don't come back, don't you even think of coming back, either. Go to James and stay with him." It sounds a bit too dramatic in his ears, but he knows it's warranted.

To judge by how Launcelot takes to the skies an instant later, he knows the owl feels it too.

His leg, he notices, throbs dully and won't carry his weight. He absently wonders what that is. The rest of him seems to know, it's just his brain that seems to have forgotten. The Dog knows it too, snarling and growling furiously inside him. Sirius can't find fault in that, but this is Grimmauld Place, and that means the Dog goes in his box until he can figure out what he's missed this time around.

"Bloody black hole," he mutters. It seems only fitting, he's not sure why.

Breakfast is devoid of hexes and the more obvious poisons.

"Last meal?" He asks Father lightly. His brain won't tell him why it chose to give him those words to say, and Sirius is long past caring. He wolfs it down, and if it's poisoned, well. Tough.

"Library," says Father through clenched teeth.

Sirius gets out the mortar and bricks again, wipes his mouth, and walks slowly upstairs.

Mother only glares at him as he passes her on her way down to breakfast. Or maybe she's smiling, it's hard to tell with her, her every expression is a grimace. She'll get stuck that way, Sirius thinks, maybe she already did, and he finds it so funny his laughter echoes in the staircase.

Father doesn't arrive immediately, so Sirius browses the shelves, as if they hold the answer to why he's positively itching to tear them all into confetti, finds a book that looks interesting.

He's read this before, hasn't he? Sure-Fire Ways to Spell Gubraithian Fire. Sirius leafs through it, decides he knows this already. When he puts it back, he feels his father suddenly behind him.

"Looking for something to read?"

"Read it already."

"Thinking of burning something down, are you?"

Sirius shrugs one shoulder, winces. For some reason, the pain only makes him angrier. When he swallows it back, it doesn't make it past his Adam's apple.

"I summoned you here because I want to make one thing very clear," says Father, and the way he says it makes Sirius's breakfast churn in the pit of his stomach.

"You've made it plenty clear these past few days, haven't you," his brain decides to supply. It comes out at a growl, and Sirius realises, it's the Dog speaking.

Father's eyes widen in shock, or something like it, but he regains his composure incredibly fast. Sirius isn't sure why, dismisses it right after.

"What is your role in life?" Orion grits out. Of all the times to give him a bloody quiz.

"Perpetual source of embarrassment?" Sirius suggests. "Punching bag? Whipping boy? Take your pick, I don't care."

"That's what you've brought onto yourself. What is your role in life? In this House?"

"Resident pyromaniac," Sirius decides. "Your House could do with a make-over."

"As could you." He ought to be wary of the wand in Father's hand, but Sirius only feels his hackles rising.

"You've already done that, Father."

"It seems it hasn't sunk in. Take off your shirt."

"No." Sirius stares straight at Orion, his tone mirroring his. "I'm going back to Hogwarts, now. I've been here too long already, and frankly, I have a million better things to do."

"Who said you're ever going back to that school?" Father asks. "We've been over this every day, when will it sink in? And you will do as you're told."

Now that makes Sirius's eyes widen in realisation. Father smiles coldly as it sinks in, as Sirius' blood runs cold.

How long has he been here?!

"You have caused this Noble House a terrible humiliation. You broke our agreement, and as such it is now void. You're never setting foot in that accursed castle ag—"

"You're delusional, Father," Sirius shoots back. Thankfully, his brain, or the Dog, no — that little Slytherin he does, indeed, have inside him rears up his head — It's as though his system has finally decided to cooperate. Or maybe he's tried all other options – kicking and screaming included – before, and he's finally decided to think outside the box.

Negotiation, or something like it, is his last resort.

He's not a fan, but the first rule of Slytherin is: everything is negotiable.

"Won't people start asking questions?" Sirius asks, takes a step forward. Father backs off, and it's the most incredible feeling. "Won't they wonder if you're not hiding a monster in here? I doubt the Ministry will fear you enough to not search this place—" Sirius stops short as something else clicks. "You know, on second thoughts, I'll stay. I'd love for them to find your toys, and you know how scary the Ministry officials are. I'd feel so helpless I'd end up telling them everything about all your—"

"Are you threatening me, you little shite?"

Sirius smirks, earnestly amused at his father's outraged expression. He looks quite apoplectic, like he's about to pop a vein. Sirius fervently hopes he does.

"I am," he confirms, but his voice cracks on the second word. It only makes him feel like laughing. "Fancy that, Father — you finally knocked a Slytherin into me!"

"I said— Take off— your—" Orion is gasping for breath, that vein popping on his temple isn't alone anymore. It looks as though the spider's web Father is made of has finally decided to show itself. For an instant, Sirius wonders what biting into that would taste like.

Sewage, probably. He smells of it, too. The entire house does.

"I heard you," he answers, and it comes out as a snarl. "But I won't do it. I'm done. I'm done with you."

"You shall do as you're told."

"No, Father. I shan't. I'm sick of your stupid rules."

"You love to— to break them constantly—"

"And isn't it a royal waste of both our time." The air is crackling with magic now, and Sirius is surprised to note it's not coming from Father; it's all him this time.

"I will not allow—"

"You're just pissed because I won't turn tomorrow and you won't get to see me beheaded. Fair enough. Here, try the Rod today, why don't you. I'm sure it's quite hungry again," he suggests, even as Orion's precious artefacts begin to fly across the room, knocking into walls and shattering the large stained-glass windows. He hasn't had an outburst of accidental magic in years, not since he was eight and beside himself with grief. But like the Dog, he feels like a pressure pot about to blow. He needs an outlet, or he'll explode.

"Or the Cane! It's starting to lose colour." Sirius suggests, and it flies into his hand, where it shatters into a million blood-stained splinters. "Or your little curses? It won't change a thing, Father. I'm done playing by your rules. Even if it's brick by brick, I'll tear down this place. The sooner you die, the sooner it will happen. So, you better live a long life!" He's shouting now, his head feels like it's about to blow up, and he part wishes it would.

"What is wrong with you?! Why do you spit on your ancestors? On our heirlooms, our ways? Why do you —"

"Hate you? WHERE DO YOU WANT ME TO BEGIN?"

"Crucio!"

"That's one of the reasons," Sirius wheezes when the world turns on again. Picks himself up from the floor, which is littered with the aftermath of his little hurricane. It's strangely liberating.

"Your House of Black will change, Father," Sirius spits out venomously. "If it's up to me, I'll change it so much you'd never recognise it, you'll be dead and forgotten, and in the meantime you can just— go fuck yourself. You can all go fuck yourselves, or each other, for all I care. Enjoy your old traditions while they last, because I will end them all."

"Is that a threat, Sirius?"

"It's a promise. And I'll make it happen, no matter what you do. Your succession will end, and I hope you'll become a bloody ghost I can lock in the attic with the others, so you can watch!"

Father raises his wand. Sirius doesn't flinch back.

.

.

Sirius opens his eyes.

November 9.

It's sunny out, sunny and cold, as if London can't make up its mind what to dish out today.

I ought to go to school, he thinks.

He's been lying here for too long. When he sits up, everything a dull throb, he wonders what happened now, why he hesitates before putting weight on his right leg when there's nothing wrong with it, why his tongue feels so papery and thick in his mouth.

He stands unsteadily, and after a few moments the world stops tilting. Just a lingering sensation remains, which grows whenever he stands still — like he's slowly falling backwards, all the time. As if the world is a bit of a kaleidoscope, today. He shakes his head to clear it, finds it's not the best of ideas.

His wand is on his desk, a set of Gryffindor robes — surprisingly devoid of stinging spells, or itching charms, or an acid coating — has been laid out for him. It's new, perfectly tailored and ready for him to wear.

Sirius looks at it grimly, not quite certain where the sensation of accomplishment he's feeling came from. A moment later it's dismissed, and out of habit, he works on adding some struts to the maze that leads to nothing, nothing, nothing.

He moves to the bathroom, looks himself in the mirror. It, too, looks like it's moving, forwards rather than backwards. It's dizzying, its words distorted in the rush of the sea, which is all he can hear.

He takes a shower — cold, he feels like he's burning up, and his back stings something wonderful and that still doesn't manage to surprise him.

Launcelot flutters onto his shoulder as he's towelling his hair dry, coos affectionately at him. Every movement aches and hurts, but he can try and turn in front of the mirror all he wants— he sees nothing there, except a rather well-placed concealment charm. He leaves it there. There's probably a reason for that, too— Black Rule number one, don't let anyone see.

It's probably got something to do with that urge he's got, to hit something hard. If it hits back, even better— he's sure there's a troll in the Forest, maybe he ought to pay it a visit.

But that's for later. Right now, it's all bricks and mortar and shovelling the debris out of the way, to rebuild walls protecting nothing, nothing, nothing.

There is no breakfast on the table.

No Father.

No Mother.

Sirius shrugs, makes his drunken way to the front room, grabs a fistful of Floo Powder in passing and upends the jar.

"Clean up on aisle six," he calls, but the house seems strangely… empty. Not even the bloody elves are around, Father's personal goblin either. If he's dreaming, Sirius thinks, it's a good one.

He lights the fireplace, and it's only when he's staring at the white-blue flames that look nothing like what he expected, he realises he's just created an Eternal Flame.

He bursts out laughing, throws Floo Powder into it, watches it turn green with something like fascination.

They'll have a job undoing that, he thinks, and steps into the flames to go home, Launcelot cooing in his ear, the Dog itching to come out and sink his fangs into something, preferably Orion-shaped. Sirius hopes the fire will spread, eat up the whole accursed house, rods and canes and curses and all.

Wouldn't that be a laugh.

.

.

His return to Hogwarts doesn't go as smoothly as he'd expected? Intended? Hoped? Sirius isn't sure.

Everyone is furious, or miffed, or plain cross at him, and Sirius can't for the life of him remember what he did this time, and it makes his frustration rise.

Even James, usually a welcome face, is right proper mad at him.

"Why the hell didn't you answer me?" he snaps, and Sirius realises he must've forgotten to connect with James. "Why didn't you even reply to my owls?"

"Didn't know you sent any. You shouldn't—" Sirius suddenly feels the world tilt, his brain supplies a glimpse, a moment only, from the depths of the green rug.

"Master, another scroll."

"The Potter boy, again. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's in love with you, Sirius." Father chuckles, tosses the scroll in the fire. Sirius grits his teeth, but he doesn't protest. He can't even move, can't get up. He can't coordinate his madly-jerking limbs, can't —

"… shouldn't have sent any," Sirius hears his mouth finish for him. The world doesn't stop tilting, though, and the Nurse ends up ushering James away, when his yelling gets on her nerves.

She isn't happy with him either, though. She wasn't when he stumbled drunkenly out of her fireplace, claiming he's just woken up, and it doesn't seem to have improved even hours later.

"He's angry," Sirius points out at James's retreating back. It's just about all he's been able to gather from James's furious rant.

"Can you blame him?" Pomfrey chides. "We expected you back by Wednesday at the latest, and there was not a word from you or your parents. Everyone was getting nervous."

"I overslept." It's not even a lie.

"For a week? Are you serious?"

"I think… I think I am. I am Sirius, aren't I." He chuckles at the old pun, watches the nurse slowly revolve around his field of vision. "Get it? Sirius?"

A long soak in the Hospital Wing tub later, he feels a bit better. The world has stopped repeating the same image at a slow whirl, but he still feels like he's constantly falling backwards, and everything aches and stings.

The Healers are not really helpful in that regard, either. If anything, they're convinced he is, in fact, going to turn tomorrow, and by the time they leave before dinner, Sirius's mood has dropped dramatically, the urge to go bite something is even worse.

.

.

His glowering mood dies with the arrival of the best news ever.

It's surprising only because it is delivered by Regulus, whom Sirius vaguely remembers being annoyed with, but can't remember why. One look at his pale, ashen expression later, though, Sirius has forgotten all about his phantom annoyance and sits up in bed, alarmed.

"What's wrong, Reggie?" he asks, searching his brother's devastated expression for any kind of clue. "What happened?"

"Don't tell me you don't know, you were there." Regulus looks close to tears, and a stone settles in Sirius' stomach.

"Know what?" he asks, honestly confused. "All I did over there was sleep until this morning."

"It's Father, Sirius!" Reggie tells him, his voice shrill with emotion. "He had a stroke last night." he holds out a scroll in his clenched fist. "What did you do?"

.

.

TBC, soon.

Feedback, as always, is very welcome and muchly appreciated!

Next up: Sirius barely passes his werewolf examinations, Orion Black dies, and everything turns sour in ways Sirius couldn't possibly have anticipated. Walburga is a terrible mother, and Voldemort gets a cameo.