Author's note: Finally, finally, finally!! Thought I'd never get this done; it's the first installment of my Sunflower Series, which revolves around Sirius (pre-Marauders Era, Marauders Era, pre-Hogwarts Era (with Harry), Hogwarts Era, post Hogwarts and, hopefully, Next Generation) and Sophia Carson, his childhood friend. I love writing in Marauders Era so this will be very exciting; besides I've been wrestling with this two characters for already too long to be healthy: it's about time I spit, pardon, let them out for you.
The French, well, it's probably disgraceful as I've never taken French in all my short life (really want to, though); however there's very little of it, so bear with me. AND bear with my grammar and general errors; English is not my first language.
There's an awful lot of background story in this one shot; I couldn't help it. It will be important; it is already very important. This one is the only part of the series with so little Sophie and Sirius; the rest of them will be completely different, promise.
Oh oh OH! Very important: in Noémie's (Sophie's mother) letter there were crossed out words BUT doesn't have that tool; I underlined what I intended to be crossed, but it just doesn't have the same... flare to me now. Oh, well.
Disclaimer: Oh, I wish; if I was J. K. Rowling I probably wouldn't be writing fanfiction.
Noémie fell in love with her baby at the first kick. It was feeble at best: a flutter of butterfly wings; a might-as-well-have-been-nothing sort of kick; Noémie, however, was rock firm in her belief: her baby had communicated with her in the best way it knew how and that was more than enough cause to love her.
Noémie had never been a motherly kind of girl: with only an older sister and no younger cousins to speak of, there had never been any sort of stimulation of her motherhood inclinations. She thought of marriage and children as one thinks of eventually growing up and pursuing a carrier: something that would happen in a very distant future – and Noémie was not a girl known for entertaining thoughts of futuristic planning. And why would she, when her present was brighter than a polished diamond ring and ever more pleasant? For such a beautiful, rich, fun-loving and sometimes kind girl the day was not long enough and the night entirely too short for everything she desired to do; to any outsider her days were comparable to a colourful blur in a shallow pool, changing colours and shapes with every passing second. However, such a life cannot go on undisturbed; on a day of remarkable tempestuous weather, the blur took a very definite shape and an unchanging palette of colours: Sage Carson's.
The Carson family had been one of the richest and oldest pure-blooded families in the Wizarding World; now they had to resign themselves to being yet another archaic pure-blooded family that had had their fortune depleted by either irresponsible relatives or Grindewald's War (in which no one could assert if the Carsons had fought against or with Grindewald). Notwithstanding, the family ancient name and lineage still held much power in certain circles and managed to dazzle many easily impressed fools; one Pierre Lefevre was not an exception – and neither was is youngest daughter.
Noémie's family was wealthy beyond measure; however albeit all its living members being considered purebloods, there was no line to speak of and no name as well. Monsieur Lefevre's father had had great success in the past, thanks to some clever ideas and equal amounts of luck and dishonesty; his considerable fortune had passed on to his only son, whose love for spending had not yet been enough to disturb its total value in the slightest.
Noémie's sister was not named in their household since her flight – and consequent disinheritance – with an obscure artist that had nothing to his name apart from a set of dishevelled brushes and a pair of soulfully burning dark eyes. It wasn't the eyes, though, – or the brushes for that matter – that drew Zoélie Lefevre to the half-starved, half-delusional man; it was an idea, an illusion of freedom away from the restraints of home, a rebel yell against her overbearing, short-sighted father.
Jean had been a true find to her. She had come across him during a large holiday spent alone in Paris; Zoélie had dragged him home with her and the result had outshone her wildest dreams. From his mud covered boots; sweeping through his very empty pockets; to the bedraggled strands of oily hair: it was her father's worst nightmare come true. Throw in that Jean was as Muggle as they come (and a very insignificant one at that) and you'll get a thoroughly outraged Pierre and a proportionally gleeful Zoélie.
Nevertheless, the wonder felt at beholding such a specimen was not meant to last long. Pierre had always been an enthusiastic adept of shouting and all around scene making; there was not a single moderate bone in his body and his would blood boil at the slightest provocation. Zoélie, satisfied with the effect caused, restrained from providing him with more fuel: as soon as the signs of explosion were visible to anyone near, she had already packed her bags, bid her mother and sister adieux and gone to – she hoped – never return. Every vestige of her was banished from the house; her room was converted into another playroom for Noémie (of which she had no use for, being a grown woman of thirteen) and every single possession she had left behind (either by plain forgetfulness or conscious decision) was literally burnt to ashes.
Noémie was not affected by this episode. There had never been a great closeness between her sister and her and, being the whole scene so unpleasant and unrelated to her, the details of it faded quickly and painlessly. It was harder to her sister, however; she loved her little conceited, futile doll of a sister, and it grieved her to leave Noémie behind, only to have her character spoilt and be altogether ruined.
Years went by for Noémie just like the breeze rustles through the flowers, with no effect besides her growing beauty and shallowness. She was as happy as she could be, and could have continued more or less in the same way had it not been for the caprices of Fate – and Floo connections; a minute spelling error prior to being engulfed in green flames can have catastrophic proportions, if you juggle with an ambitious, cold-hearted man and a bright eyed naïve eighteen years old girl. Sage Carson had meant to stay only one night in the region, in an acquaintance's house, but the similar names of the residences and the persistent nature of the Lefevre family ensured his company for a whole fortnight.
After that, well, everything followed its natural - under the circumstances - course. Noémie fell in love with her tall, handsome stranger, a fantasy encouraged by both Sage and Pierre; the first for the too common reason which drives destitute, intelligent men to wealthy, innocent girls; the later for the selfish ambition of gaining such an influential relative. The wedding was arranged in little more than a month and Noémie found herself married with a man she knew nothing of, on her way to a country to where she had never been before.
Ever since her sixteenth birthday she had traded some letters with her sister, hidden from her father and encouraged by her mother; as Zoélie was very scarce when writing about herself so Noémie made up by doubling her own writing.
A week after her arrival to England, her ingenuous ideals already less innocent, she searched again for the comfort of writing to her sister.
Dearest Zoe,
I am sure Mama has told you of the recent news, therefore you must know I'm already married and settled in England. I feel a great need to tell you how grueling I find it here. After all, Mama would be heartbroken with my news and Papa adores Sage so that it would be of no help if I wrote to him. Consequently, you remain the only one who will take notice of my great misery; for I am miserable, exactly as you wrote I would be in the very same letter I made sure burned to ashes. But you ought not to remember me of that in your next letter; you shall not hurt me so, I forbid you.
When first we got to this very house, it was dreadfully dark all around and I could not see it properly. In the morning, however
Zoélie, you shall laugh at me when you read this, as you always laughed when we were little, but it will be a very callous thing to do.
Zoe, I think I shall die in this house.
My dear, dear Zoe, I cannot delude myself any longer into thinking my husband loves me. I don't believe he ever did, as you also remarked in one of your letters. On our first night here we slept in separate rooms, for which I was grateful. However, on the second night, he came to my room.
I cannot stand to write to you about it, I can barely bear to think it. It all seemed so full of glee and delight back at home, whenever I heard married friends of Mama discussing it. Sister, it is not. I dreaded every night from then on, but he hasn't come back, and I pray it shall never happen again.
I barely see anyone, apart from two little creatures that surge form seemingly nowhere. Sage says they are called houselfs house elves, somewhat like servants. I do not know what to make of them yet. They always have a filthy and gloomy air about them, but the moment I suggested to my husband giving them decent clothes he glared at me with such murderous fury in his eyes that I dared not say another word.
Remember when you wrote I should not marry someone I knew nothing of? It could make me laugh, were it not happening to me: Sage has two daughters, one aged nine and the other barely six. They manage between them to make me almost as miserable as my husband does; they don't seem capable of a single charitable thought towards me and my situation. It seems to be mutual, as I cannot bring myself to love such unattractive, haughty children. I can already see you shaking your head at me, but from time to time I believe it would only take a compassionate smile from them to grant them all my heart.
There are no smiles in this house, Zoe. No warmth whatsoever. Only a draft capable of freezing one's bones to dust and a dark, gruesome frost that chills the heart.
Love always,
Noémie
P.S.: Do write to me as quickly as possible.
Zoélie did write back; many times she wrote to her sister hoping that, by sole persistence, she could persuade Noémie to leave her husband. She was not impressed greatly by the contents of the letter: they seemed to her a straight copy from Noémie's favourite novels; she would not believe for a moment in "murderous furys", "great miseries" or "gruesome frosts"; her fingers itched to write biting remarks about a woman – as Noémie deemed herself to be – who expected children to mutiny against their father in favour of a step-mother they had barely met; she was appalled at the cheap pity eliciting attempts: water blurred words faking copious tears and scratched out dramatic sentences, giving them more prominence under the guise of repenting them.
Zoélie knew her sister and, for that same reason, was determined to break her free of Sage, who could never love her and would never respect her. She had received an account of Sage from her mother, whose opinion she trusted only slightly more than Noémie's or her father's; it had, however, been enlightening: she was sure of the kind of man he was and how unsuited he was for his sister; she also knew Noémie's pride would never let her write to her sister if she could help it.
The mention of their first night worried Zoélie: there was no longer any hope for an annulment from without; Noémie's shame and fear would prevent it happening from within. Therefore Zoélie settled for enduring her sister's situation as she could, knowing how fruitless it was to hope for a change in Sage's feelings or in her sister's behaviour.
As the shock of her first night as a wife refused to subside, Noémie dreaded the moment when the next one would take place; nevertheless, Sage did not seem interested in pursuing any more intimacy – she soon found out why. The constant sickness that took over her stomach, the way she did not seem able to get up in the mornings and the disappearance of her monthly blood were not symptoms she could ignore.
Her first reaction was horror; she realized she was bound to Sage in the deepest way possible and there would be no manner of releasing herself from him; she imagined she would eventually gather the courage to escape him if it were not for the being growing within her.
She settled for hating the creature, at least as much as a child can hate; for Noémie was still a child at her core. As it grew, so grew her resentment at something that, in her mind, would have too much of Sage and too less of her.
The kick, the flutter, whatever it may be, changed it all: from then on, Noémie thought of the baby as an ally against everyone else; she had no doubts that it was a girl, for what boy would turn against his father? No, her baby was a girl, a beautiful, lovable child, unlike Sage's despicable children.
As a result, she had felt no surprise whatsoever when her daughter was born, as radiant and bright-eyed as she could hope for; from the soft, feather like hair, to the tiny, pink toes,— it was a work of perfection. The shell form of her ears, the rosy lips, the bright blue eyes (Sage's clearly, but such a detail could be easily ignored) and the ever restless fingers of the little being were enough to make Noémie fall truly and hopelessly in love – just like a child falls in love with a new toy.
Noémie ran her fingers through her hair and glanced at the mirror in front of her; she admired her own face; the dark, smooth frame of her hair; her mouth curved into a carefully practiced tender smile; the pale curve of her neck; her baby, blissfully asleep in her arms, was but a complimentary accessory to her beauty. She frowned – a pretty frown: it still bothered her that, even though her loveliness had managed to melt so many hearts, it had never brought a smile of devotion to Sage's lips.
A loud crack startled her; she jumped in her seat and almost woke the baby. She turned away from the mirror to be faced with one of the elves bowing ceremoniously to her. "Yes?" she asked, attempting to imprint in her tone the distance her husband had several times insisted was the only thing adequate when addressing a house elf.
"Mrs. Black is here, madam. She says she is come to see the baby, madam." The elf bowed again, a devoted glint in her muddy full moon eyes.
"So soon?" Noémie bit her lip at the inconvenient slip, but the elf didn't seem eager to call her on it. "I mean, yes, certainly, I… I have been expecting her. Show her in, will you Diddy?"
"Is Curly, madam. Diddy is making tea. Does the mistress wants Curly to get the cradle? For the baby?"
"Oh, Curly, how very thoughtless of me! I am terribly sorry!" She felt, for the thousandth time in the past ten months, the characteristic mixture of bewilderment and mortification repeated whenever she committed a faux-pas; she couldn't decide which was worse: forgetting the name of a being so obviously devoted to her and her baby or the idea of what Sage would say if he saw her apologising so profusely to a house elf.
"No, Mistress Noheemee, madam, no apologize to Curly! Mistress Noheemee is too kind to Curly! Curly knows mistress don't do on purpose, madam!" The beetroot nosed creature seemed very close to tears, convulsively pulling at the threads of her tattered tablecloth.
Noémie felt a smile tugging at the corners of her lips at the elf's disorientation; both the elves, past the initial reserve, had showered her with kindness, for which she was most thankful; she had been slightly fearful of them at first, since she had never met one before, but she had quickly understood they meant her no harm; in fact, she felt as if they were the only beings she could trust inside the house. Sage did not exactly mistreat them, but there was an indifference in his treatment of them that was, from her point of view, even worse than the blatant hatred he showed her.
"Ah non, Curly, don't cry. It is wrong of me to still mistake you for Diddy, after all this time, so I want you to correct me whenever I do, understood?" She smiled, elated with her graceful behaviour, as the elf opened her mouth to protest. "Non, Curly, hush. We will not speak of this again."
Noémie turned to the mirror again, hugging her daughter closer – asking for protection. She felt a throbbing in her head, as the anxiety for the imminent confrontation took over her previous good mood; if she dared, she would send Curly down with some excuse; however she did not. After all, it would only delay it; better face it once and for all.
"Is mistress feeling ill?"
"Non, Curly, I am not, don't worry. Listen, I want you to run downstairs and bring me the baby's cradle. On your way, ask Diddy to bring the tea as quickly as possible. Then… you can ask Mrs. Black to come up." The last bit was let out reluctantly, but the elf overlooked it.
"Curly goes immediately, madam!"
There was a new crack, signalling the elf's departure, and Noémie was left to herself. The baby stirred in her arms, seemingly close to waking up; Noémie shifted her so that the tiny head laid comfortably on her shoulder and got up from the chair; she started walking back and forth in front of the window, rocking the fussing baby in her arms, "Sshh, sshhh. Hush ma petite, or I will have Curly take you away. It won't do to misbehave in front of the visitors, mon trésor."
The baby calmed down at once, enthralled as she was with a lock of her mother's hair; her tiny rosy fists clasped and unclasped gently tugging at the tresses of dark hair, her blue eyes glowing in the afternoon sun; Noémie smiled happily and halted her pace.
"You are such a beauty, are you not? Ma belle fille, mon beau ange," she muttered, kissing the minute fingers tenderly.
"Mistress Noheemee?"
She hadn't heard the elf's arrival; it made her wonder at how stealthy they could be when they wanted to. It was Diddy this time, with the tea tray. If she looked hard enough she could notice the differences between the house elfs, even though to her they were similar enough to be twins; while Curly's nose was much like a beetroot, both in shape and coloration, Diddy's was thinner and sharper, like a bird's beak; their eyes were also slightly different in colour, but everything else, from their long toes to the pointy ends of their ears was the same.
" Diddy?"
"Yes, madam?" The elf tried to bow while at the same time equilibrating the heavy tray in her hands. "You and Curly, are you... I mean, did you..." She shook her head in frustration; she didn't want to be rude to one of the only two creatures who had shown her kindness; however her curiosity was getting the best of her. "What I mean is, are you sisters? Did you come from the same... family?"
"Oh no, not sisters, madam. But Diddy and Curly is related, yes. Curly's great-grandmother was Diddys great-great-aunt. You see Mistress Noheemee, madam, when is more than one elf in one house and the oldest Master or Mistress marries, they takes one elf for their new home." The elf was efficiently disposing the cutlery, while talking and pouring tea in the teacups at the same time. "But when Mistress Myrna marries Master Sage, she brings Curly here again, because she has no brothers and no sisters and her parents is long dead."
"Oh." Noémie felt her girly heart wince slightly at the mention of Sage's lost love; she couldn't tell how much of it was still jealously or despite for being rejected over a decaying corpse. "So you must have been happy, n'est-ce pas? To have someone of your family here again?"
"A house elf has no family but his Master's, Mistress Noheemee. Diddy is happy to serve." A prolonged bow and a crack, and the elf was gone, leaving behind a marvellously set table and a puzzled Noémie.
"Odd little creatures, aren't they mon coeur?" she remarked to her daughter, as a low cradle appeared in the room, seeming to bring an elf along with it instead of the other way around.
"The cradle for the baby, madam. Is Curly to let Mrs. Black up now?"
"Oh well, can't leave her waiting now, can we?" Noémie sighed , resigning herself to her fate; she seemed to be doing a lot of it since she had gotten there. "Let her in then, Curly. Non, wait, bring the cradle here and lay the baby down on it, will you?" She wanted to be up and unobstructed when the door opened; her green eighteen years and slight frame were already hindering enough without Walburga Black being able to loom over her.
The elf assented and took the baby in her wiry arms, gently settling her down on the cradle with a loving gleam in her eyes. Noémie barely noticed the attachment the elfs had to her baby anymore; however, in the first days after her daughter's birth, it had made her uneasy; not ever during her life in France had she seen a house elf and all she had heard about them were vague notions, utterly incorrect and absurd; thus, as kind and helpful as they had been to her throughout her pregnancy, it had not prepared her for the nearly maternal care they dispensed to her daughter.
As the days turned to weeks, however, it had become so usual and such a commodity for her that she found herself trusting her baby in their capable hands as often as she could, reserving for her only the good moments.
"The baby is ready, madam. Curly asks Mrs. Black to come up, yes?"
"Yes Curly, send her up. Did she bring her son with her? Sergius, I think his name is. Or is it Cyrus?"
"Sirius, Mistress Noheemee, madam."
"What is he like? I hope he doesn't look too much like his mother. No child deserves that, n'est-ce pas?" Noémie giggled, imagining a minute Walburga: heavy brows furrowed and portentous voice turned into a piercing whine.
"No, Mistress Noheemee, madam. He is a very handsome child, the most handsome Curly ever saw. Curly saw a lot of little boys when she is in Mistress Myrna's old house, but not one so handsome, not ever."
"I see," she said drily, resentful that it was Walburga's urchin that Curly thought most handsome and not her daughter; however, in truth, what does a house elf know? "Well then, all the better for him. Go on, Curly, tell them to come up: I am curious to see the vision for myself."
"Right away, madam."
Noémie waited for the elf to disappear and almost raced to the cradle, positioning it so that the sunlight enhanced the profile of her daughter's face; it was petty, at the very least, but it felt important to Noémie that no child belonging to Walburga should outshine her baby in anything.
She had just sat down when she heard the knock and had just managed to smooth the creases on her clothes when the door opened. Curly was the first to enter, immediately going to the corner, making herself as insignificant as possible while still being in the room, ready to fulfil any request; after her came Walburga, her head high and a slight expression of contempt over her harsh features, surveying the room with a keen eye for any imperfection, looking disappointed as she found none.
Trailing after her, his pace so uncertain Noémie almost went to pick him up was the "very handsome little boy" Curly had described. Barely over one year of age, he was already engaging in his childish charm: the dark, sleek curls covering his head and almost touching his shoulders; the clear grey eyes positively firing with curiosity; the small nose already turning up in an adorable way for such a small child and the hint of a perfectly shaped shin and jaw were enough to deserve him Curly's compliment. Noémie knew that many ugly children grew beautiful over the years, while cherubic exemplars turn out painfully plain; however, from the bottom of her shallow soul, she hoped it wouldn't prove true with this one.
She got up slowly, watching the child wobble in the direction of his mother on very unsteady legs; she acknowledged Walburga's presence and waved at Curly for a chair.
"Please, Walburga, do sit down. Curly, bring the small stool for Sirius, will you? The one in the nursery?"
"There is no need for it, my dear Noémie. Sirius can stand on his own now," the dragon said, with no small amount of smugness in her voice.
"Yes, of course, I see that, but he's still so young..." Noémie let her voice trail off; she felt confused; she was at loss of what to say. She had only noticed the lovely curls and missed the focused expression on the child's face; the effort he was making to stay up on his short legs was made her wince; there was no telling how long his mother made him stand or walk without help, only so that she could brag about her clever and able son.
"If you are sure, then..." Noémie waved Curly and the stool away.
"Yes, it's better this way. It does him good, won't let him grow lazy."
Noémie pursued her lips; the boy didn't stop by his mother's chair, perhaps already knowing on some level that he wouldn't be welcome there, and wobbled instead to the delicate cradle where the baby rested. Curly and Diddy had rescued it from the attic where it had laid forgotten for years, covered in cobwebs and time; after intensive cleaning and polishing the carved in reliefs were finally visible and the intricate craft could be admired. Noémie hadn't dared to ask her husband to whom it had belong to, and he had never mentioned it; it was smaller than most cradles, enabling both elfs to pick up or lay the baby down without any help.
"So tell me, Noémie, dear, how have you been finding motherhood?"
The younger woman turned reluctantly to the talking dragon in front of her. "Motherhood? Wonderful, really. She is such a quiet baby." Noémie smiled, in spite of herself; ever since the birth, her daughter had been her favourite (and when she could, her only) topic. "I have absolutely no problems with her."
"Well, of course, she is still so small! Hardly any personality at all, don't you agree? I have no patience for such small children. Sirius is not even one year older; yet he is already so advanced for his age!"
The first sting; usually the most hurtful for its unexpected quality; however Noémie had been waiting for it.
"He certainly is," she conceded with a smile, "But I can onlyassume that, being my husband's child, my daughter will surprise us all. Do you notagree?
Walburga's eyes narrowed and the corners of her mouth tensed; Noémie almost expected a baring of teeth, so vicious the older woman looked.
"Yes, well, Rosemary and Sarah-Maude do seem promising," Noémie waited for the bite, "Of course, Myrna was so cultured. Good-breeding makes all the difference.
Noémie swallowed drily; her throat constricted; anger and frustration fought their way up to her eyes, threatening to spill out of her body in liquid state. She had always found it troubling to control her emotions and had never been actively encouraged to restrain herself during her childhood; she had learned fast with Sage, on who her tears seemed only to be fuel for anger; still, hearing praise to her husband's late wife from the mouth of this abject woman was maddening. Mumbling out a noncommittal reply, she settled for sipping her tea and making noises of agreement to Walburga's ramblings; even if any other time a sting was aimed at her dress, countenance, upbringing or general existence, Noémie accused none, slipping into an already familiar state of half-awareness.
Sirius touched the bars, his eyes and hands following the vine like weaving of the wood. He didn't even notice the baby inside as he wringed his fingers through the bars, touching the soft blanket and reaching for his prize, a glowing white plush salamander; he tugged at it experimentally then bolder as it wouldn't get loose and no one reproached him. Letting go of the bar he was holding onto, he leaned forward supporting his weight on the cradle and clutched the toy with both hands; his still tender legs, however, weren't steady enough: there was only so much strength he could master without toppling flat on his bottom. He turned to look at the two sour-faced women, confirming that his efforts were unnoticed; assured of that for the time being, he tried to go for a different part of the toy; however there was no more glowing fake fur in sight – instead a very alive and warm starfish of an hand attached to a very upset baby who did not appreciate being disturbed in its sleep. Sirius's yelp of surprise matched the baby's groan of annoyance with perfect timing – happily, both were drowned out by Walburga's fruitful monologue. Noémie, almost nodding off in the middle of a buttery scone, did not notice a thing.
The baby opened her eyes to the hoodlum, determined to pluck out his eardrums, but did not utter her cries as the curious boy wormed a finger inside one of her tiny clenched fists; he was intrigued with a being that was actually smaller than him. She grabbed hold of his fingers and squeezed tight – perhaps in revenge, perhaps in a strange peace offering – and the boy let her.
They stood there for a moment; their thoughts and actions, as unwitnessed, were never to be remembered. Then Sirius went for the toy again with one hand, his other one still hostage of the baby; the fingers that were curled possessively around the plush animal unclenched immediately, allowing him to pull it out triumphantly – and promptly drop it with indifference.
The baby smiled, but Noémie didn't notice.
As soon as the Blacks left the house, Noémie went to bed with a blinding headache, leaving the baby in the cradle, to be cared for whoever was willing.
Swinging her small flower hands back and forth in the air, Sophie kept smiling.
The End
(of this one-shot, though, the thing will keep on for much longer than you or I would like)
Do I look like I care about reviews? Yes, I most certainly do.