Both of Her Sons
The funeral was a properly dark and morbid function, London rain pouring down as if on cue in the dreariness of the ceremony. All wore black, whether to honor the name of the dead or to align themselves in the sepulture atmosphere he did not know. It was strange, but Sirius thought his mother looked almost beautiful, stern line of her mouth softened a bit in grief or at least a parody of mourning, eyes outlined thickly, dress shaping a figure still impressive after the birth of two sons. Regulus simply looked sad, gangly limbs sticking out of his suit as if he were dressing up in his father's clothes, holding his mother's arm to escort her to a pretend ball.
He felt nothing except a detached amusement at the rigmarole of the thing. There they were, walking up and throwing pansy flowers on his father's grave, pretending he'd been a man of moral substance, a man worthy such a Grande affair, when he himself knew they had, if not hated the man, than held an indifference to his constant blatherings-on about blood honor and family dignity. There was Narcissa, crying crocodile tears on her beau's arm, Andromeda looking uncomfortably out of place beside her, clutching her rose. Bellatrix stood apart from them, patting one of his aunts on the head, a coy smile plastered strangely on her face.
He laughed at them all, at the idiotic tragedy they acted out before him on their stage of graves.
The music started up, some silly morbid tune that fit perfectly with hysterical sobbing and the smush of high heels on muddy grass, and Sirius turned round lighting a cigarette. Why he'd come here, he had yet to find out. He'd been rid of them for a year and graduation was a blink away. There was no reason for looking back now, dead father or no. Yet, Mrs. Potter had insisted, standing sadly at his front door in the early morning brightness as soon as she'd heard.
"I know you didn't always agree on things, but Sirius he was your father. Surely that means something."
He restrained himself from telling her it had meant nothing to either party because his bitterness had so often evoked a horrible pity in her usually pretty countenance.
The attendees had all retreated to their homes, and cautiously, Sirius walked up to the new pile of dirt. A plain headstone surprised him as much as the engraving on it did not. It read in plain lettering: Rigel Francis Black, and beneath it, Tojours Pur. No year or phrase about loving husband or some shite, but that ridiculous family motto. Perhaps it was appropriate, after all he had been no loving anything, only a cold, ruthless devotee to purity. Sirius spit on the granite and tried to take a drag but found the cigarette burnt out by the wet. He stamped it over the earth on his father's body.
"Pathetic, that you have only the courage to insult your father in death, Sirius."
And there she was, expected but not.
"You've told me many times how I've betrayed him in life, mother. Or don't you remember?"
He watched as her shoes stepped up beside his, dress dragging in the mud.
"Of course, but always behind his back and with Potter smirking over your shoulder. Tell me, how are things in the house of traitors?"
He wouldn't dare tell her he'd moved out with his uncle's money.
"Right as rain, thank you. Fag?"
He held out the pack and finally looked into her face. It was paler than he remembered, though the glare was back in its familiar place.
"You have no right,"
Here we go, he thought wearily.
"Standing here in your muggle clothes, defiling the grave of your father. Have you not taken enough rest from him in life to deny him peace in death?"
He sighed, trying to get his lighter to work.
"Gods, but you're as dramatic as ever aren't you?"
She pursed her lips, but her eyes flashed.
"Better a dramatic than heartless fool who would dishonor his family."
He opened his mouth to smart out a reply, but she cut him off.
"You must wonder why I did not inform you of his passing."
"Not really, but I guess you'll tell me."
She ignored him and continued on.
"He told me on his death bed, weak as he was, to keep you away. He said you were no longer a son, not worthy to even look upon his dead body. He could barely talk then, but it was important that he speak the words."
He stood frozen, taking the information in, jaw muscles tightening suddenly and painfully.
"Leave."
But he was frozen in place.
"Get out of this place," she hissed, fury unlike any he'd seen before burning in her eyes. Suddenly he felt a child again, scared and small.
"Get out! You are no son of mine! A beast, disgusting piece of filth! It turns my stomach to look at you. Get out!"
He turned and walked away, stumbling over the final resting places of his ancestors: Alphard, Orion, Billius, Phineas, Elladora, Polaris, on and on it went. In his tortured mind they grabbed at his legs, pulling him down and down until he succumbed to hell itself, consumed by waves of pure, Black blood, tangled in the branches of his family tree. He had begun running somehow and could not seem to make himself slow.
"Sirius?"
/No, oh gods, no. I won't go back./
Someone was grabbing his arm. "Sirius!" He wrenched away, tripping on his feet.
"Sirius, stop. Stop it now. You're all right. Okay? You're okay."
It had got hold of his arms again but it was Mrs. Potter, and the nightmare abruptly ended. His chest and legs ached. Everything ached. He breathed heavily on the crown of her head as she pulled him close, and stood numb as she clutched her arms around him, staring up at the grotesque, blurring moon. After a long moment, she pulled back and pushed him in front of her.
"Come on now, I'll get you home."
Somehow, he was in the Potter's car, one they'd obtained for a reason Sirius had forgotten, and Mrs. Potter was talking, her voice muffled as if through a veil.
"…but James is in Germany with the Evanses over Christmas, and the room's free. We've been so lonely through the holidays with the house being empty, and Hector misses you so, Sirius, always asking when you'll go riding with him again soon. Of course I told him maybe you didn't like going out with someone incapable of actually staying on a horse, but you men are so stubborn sometimes. Runs in the family, as I'm sure you know."
The lights passed by in a blur as they traveled down the streets of the city. Sirius nodded every once and a while at something his cheery chauffeur said. The car was jerking about, bumping him into the window as the wheels screeched on a tight turn. He felt a sudden, gripping chill, and held his hand out in front of him, curiously registering the tremble in it.
"Sirius?"
"Hmm?"
He looked up and realized they were at the Potters.
"We're home."
Mrs. Potter smiled at him. He smiled back grotesquely.
"You can take me to the apartment you know. I don't want to, you know, intrude or something."
She reached over and opened his car door.
"Nonsense. Our home is yours."
They were inside the house, and Sirius blinked, wondering how he'd missed the passage from the car to the front door.
"Come over here and I'll make some chocolat chaud."
She chuckled a bit at that, draping a blanket over him and guiding him to the couch.
"Remus, sweet boy, taught me that. Means hot chocolate, or so he says."
Then he was alone for a while. He stared into the fire and remembered his mother's eyes. Sirius hated her and his father more than anything. The sentiment seemed so worn out even he tired of hearing it.
"What's that you said?"
She walked in carrying two mugs of what he suspected would be watery, lukewarm, hot chocolate. He realized he must have uttered his last thought aloud and repeated it.
"Oh, Sirius," she set the mugs on the table behind her and knelt down before him, holding his large, clumsy hands in her small, graceful ones. He stared down at the contrast and felt he might be in love with her if only for a moment.
"You don't hate them, you just wish you did." He glanced away.
A bang sounded above them and then a curse.
"What's the noise about, darling? Sirius, lad, is that you there?"
She did not break contact as Mr. Potter sleepily entered the room clad only in juvenile striped pajamas.
"Just Sirius, go on to bed."
He yawned. "Shall I put on some tea?"
"No dear, go to sleep. You'll be late for work tomorrow."
Almost comically, he retreated. Mrs. Potter got up and sat next to Sirius, still holding his hand in her lap.
"You never can tell if he's sleepwalking or not with all the nonsense he spouts in the night."
She was rubbing his thumb with her finger. Nothing was said for quite some time. Then:
"I'm glad he's dead."
"Are you?"
The finger kept moving.
"Yeah, I only wish he had taken her with him. Maybe then Regulus…"
"Hmm?"
"Well, it probably wouldn't make any difference, idiot that he his."
The silence seemed so huge, so overwhelming.
"It sounds stupid to say, but when I heard his heart gave out, the first thing I thought was, 'I didn't know he had one.'"
She gripped his hand harder.
"Gods, it's all so fucking hilarious."
He laughed as if to prove a point, and kept laughing, gasping with the effort of it.
Mrs. Potter's fingers made their way up to the back of his head and rested there.
"Sirius." She was always saying his name. It just about killed him. His chest ached so bad, so bad.
"…so bad. Oh Gods, I'm just a fucking failure. It doesn't matter. Shit."
He breathed in and the air pummeled his lungs.
Mrs. Potter pulled his head to her breast and rocked slowly, shushing him.
"You're not my mother. You should… you sh-should just stop."
He pawed weakly at her arms.
"Stop, please. Oh…"
She didn't let go.
"Sirius, don't you know how good you are? You're going to go out in the world and do amazing things, I know it. There's so much capacity for love and honor in you. Can't you see that? Whatever happened in that house, it doesn't matter now. It doesn't matter."
And for some reason, he almost believed her.
The next day James came home making some excuse about the weather in Germany and slept in his bed with an arm over Sirius's chest and a foot kicking Sirius's shin. Remus, Peter, and even Lily came by "for tea." He had never been so covered with touch in his life. Rough hugs and hands on his shoulders and small farewell kisses on his cheek. It made him glad and angry at the same time, remembering an old picture in which his father had held a newborn Sirius away from him as if holding a dangerous weapon. He was unused to the ways of comfort. He'd told Remus this once while they smoked on the Potters' back porch. The older boy had only smiled and ran his hand through Sirius's hair.
"I know what you mean."
Years later, when Sirius's sensitivity to touch had been reawakened in Azkaban and Mrs. Potter was long dead from old age and grief, Remus would run his hands through Sirius's hair again and guide him through twelve years of death. Surrounded by ghosts and memories, they tried to reconcile the past. Some days, they sorted through pictures Remus had found deep in the attic of his house, reminiscing, as men often do, on the glory day of their youth.
"Look at this one."
Remus handed him a slightly torn one taken soon after Harry's birth. A happier Sirius held the baby close to his chest while James and Mrs. Potter stood behind him, she with an arm around his waist.
"You should show that to Harry."
Sirius looked up at him quizzically.
"Why? He's seen his grandmother."
Remus smiled and ran a hand through Sirius's hair.
"Because he's not seen her with both of her sons."
He blinked away the wet in his eyes and smacked Remus on the arm.
"You're such an awful sap, Moony."
But as he looked at Mrs. Potter's beaming face, he realized it was true, that he had been her family. She had not lied to him after all.
Sirius decided he would show Harry the picture come summer time. Perhaps he too would understand about being a surrogate son.