Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I have no related ownership to the books.
A handsome boy with dark wavy and cropped hair, clothed in a luxurious set and shiny shoes, bickered—from Remus's view—to a wall. Even though his voice was raised, the boy didn't seem resentful. His broad smile gave him away. Remus thought he resembled the dashing prince in the fairytales. The wall chuckled humorously back at the handsome boy. Both seem to share so much enjoyment as their voice intended that Remus couldn't help but laugh at the witty retorts.
Chapter 2 – Sirius
Number twelve, Grimmauld Place, hidden between number eleven and number thirteen, prepared for a fiasco of pureblood family members and their children; Kreacher, the Black family house-elf bestowed with a peak nose and rabbit ears, meticulously situated the china and silverware individually. The manor was buzzing with the mistress's demands and arrangements of highly prized, albeit newly purchased acquisitions, for they were to be used once for a singular, stunning impact. Suddenly, porcelain ceramic was snatched from the table. Walburga Black inspected the spotted dish with dismay.
"What is this, Kreacher?"
The house-elf looked uncertain at the flatware. No one but Mrs. Black seemed to distinguish the hideous stain on the pure, white plate. She thrust the plate into Kreacher's arms and ordered him to rewash it. From the topmost corridor Sirius could almost hear his mother click her tongue and see the foaming frustration at the closest object as he left his bedroom without closing the door. Only Regulus and him shared this floor, and with the preparation of tonight's festivities, his mum was far too busy to raid his room—instead contented on ordering the house-elf who also could not touch his belongings.
Sirius Orion Black was ten years of age. His nine-years-old brother, Regulus, sat beside him on the steps; he kept shooting Sirius's nervous glances as if his would impulsively jump over the rails. "Sirius, you could fall."
"Relax," said Sirius, hands gripping on either sides of the railing and legs freely swaying in mid-air. "I won't."
He hoped to reassure his brother even with his curt speech, but the outcome did not improve; in fact, Regulus looked even more terrified than before. The handsome boy felt himself shake with laughter. Then, his brother looked up. "Hi, Dad…."
"Dad?" Sirius immediately twirled about, losing grip (it didn't help that his palms were sweaty) and would have tumbled down the many steps below had his father not act on impulse. He chuckled weakly at Orion Black, his heart still pounding with adrenaline. Regulus mirrored his expression behind his father. He couldn't help but be reminded of their similar looks as he saw his reflection in Regulus's orbs.
"Sirius," Orion reprimanded, "what were you doing? You could have been killed!"
"I wasn't--" He felt a tinged of optimism.
"What example are you setting for Regulus?" Sirius felt disappointment brew in the pits of his chest. "He's your younger brother! How can you be so idiotic?" Orion finished and waited for an answer. Feeling foolish for the glimpse of hope he had acquired, Sirius ignored the last statement.
"Regulus is only one year younger than me!"
"Sirius, that doesn't change that you are the eldest! Regulus isn't the next heir!"
"Then let him be since you and Mum adore him so much!" He couldn't help but feel envious towards his brother. Even when his parents berated him, they always brought up Regulus. He was a perfect, gentlemanly pureblooded royal. Why couldn't Sirius act more like him? Set a good example. Sirius yanked his arm away and stomped down the stairs, his father in tow. "SIRIUS!"
Mrs. Black was too busy yelling, her aggravated screeches override Mr. Black's anger-filled shouts, at the self-punishing Kreacher to notice her son's small shadow further down the hall. Sirius rolled his eyes. Typical. He overlooked his mother's precious troll leg umbrella rack, disgusted with the display. His mother finally found a unique antique that wasn't flimsy enough for him to break or coveted to touch.
He closed the door quietly; otherwise, his mother would chase him back. As he treaded down the cemented, polluting flight of steps to the sidewalk, dipping his head to avoid the eyes of his Muggle neighbors in their shaggy clothes.
-
Meanwhile, Remus slumbered peacefully after the night of the full moon. The house was a one room individual building not much different from a shack except for its stable, low ceilings and simple furniture. When Martin was arrested, Cyrilla planned to move them to her mother's, or Martin's previous estate, but Martha Lupin refused. She believed her daughter had a quarrel with her husband and wouldn't listen.
"Cyrilla, if you keep running from your problems, they will keep coming back!"
Their conversation wasn't even face-to-face. Her mother refused to open the door.
She resorted to buying a temporary home. It was a clean, quaint little thing out in the woods and beside a small pond; the space was clear, and Remus was small. The toads in the pond kept him company, and the secluded area allowed him to wander without worry. Animated pictures waved, aware of a spectator just a few inches from reach. Cyrilla waved through the makeshift window frame.
Cyrilla sighed.
It was painful to remember. The Ministry had condemned Martin to three months, but he hadn't returned. Cyrilla returned often enough. She brushed out the knots and dressed up stunningly, then decently, for that was all she had. John Martin didn't appear, not even his ghost gloomed. In any case as a lover, she figured they never released him.
The clump of blanket bleated mm—and rolled. She set a vial of purple liquid, labeled Wound-Cleaning Potion; it sloshed and fizzed along the rims before dying into popping, miniscule bubbles.
--
The curls of Cyrilla had long faded to bustle of web hair. Sometimes, the stereotype fit her more than Remus.
The house-elf made an unappreciatively gurgle in his throat but allowed her in. Kreacher has a half-mind to shut the door on ugly Squib's face, Kreacher muttered; the elf must have bordered on senility; he—and she hoped it wasn't a she—looked much older than Toby and Pippi. Cyrilla was a bit apprehensive but expect
She calmed herself; it wouldn't do if her client refused her presentation because she throttled their house-elf with expensive umbrellas. Most likely they would expect reimbursement—an expense she couldn't afford—both literally and figuratively.
Cyrilla marveled at the entryway of Grimmauld Place. She followed Kreacher into the long and narrow, in invitation, hallway, culminating to the bright light room with a large chandelier, hanging on the very lofty ceilings. Cyrilla suspected that each floor of this grand mansion inspired such ornate canvases.
A tapping followed her in. She turned.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize there were other guests," said Cyrilla absentmindedly without looking up. "My name is Cyrilla Lupin. Are you here on business as well?"
"Sirius Black, and no, I'm underage." Rather squeaky, she thought. Sounds hardly like a mature adult. Cyrilla took in his striking appearance and pricey clothes. A child. How ridiculous of me! She paused. Sirius Black. "O-oh."
Cyrilla fidgeted with the helms of her blouse, avoiding eye contact with the Black heir. Instead, she focused her attention on the rest of the residence. Every splash of color was delicately applied, though rather repetitive, and it took her breath away.
"It must be wonder to live here," whispered Cyrilla, but Sirius had heard.
"Not really."
She blushed, mortified that a child had heard her fantasizing—of his own home, no less. Children were difficult to handle. Remus was a timid child with no authority, but this boy held a fortune over her head. One wrong move and Mr. Black could sever all ties with the woman. This is for
Remus, she reiterated…. for Remus. Without Martin's aid and her mother's techniques, Cyrilla didn't know any nearby source to attain ingredients for Remus's potions.
As Cyrilla entertained the boy with her presence, she couldn't help but feel intimidated. Even her as her sentences dwindled, the majestic heir did not care to move. The boy's pretension suffocated the poor woman. Cyrilla shut her eyes and took a deep breath. If she could not handle the spawn of her uninsured employer, how was she to impress upon Mr. Black?
Somehow, she thought, he must be childish. He could simply be a self-indulgent brat, discouraging the wisdom of others and preferring the automatic glory left by the legacy of his father. Cyrilla peaked from beneath her lids, staring straight into the face of Sirius Black. She sucked in her breath.
"Why so green?"
"E-Excuse me?"
"Your face."
"Ah…."
Cyrilla felt so foolish. Sirius Black, even so, wasn't bothered by the lack of coherent speech on her side. "What sort of 'business' are you proposing to my dear father?"
She couldn't shake off that blatant display of sarcasm. Is this a test? The actions of the young Black seemed to dawn on her; he was certainly acting as an agent for this father. It was surely an ingenious strategy to root out bad intentions. Cyrilla smiled to herself.
"As a matter of fact, yes," said Cyrilla. "Your father and I have a set appointment today. Would you be so kind as to appeal to him?"
She didn't dare to ask him to "fetch" his father.
The boy watched her knowingly. "I would rather not. I'm not his keeper, Miss."
"Excuse me?" she uttered.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said with a snarky tone. "I didn't think you were a misses. No man in his right mind would marry a wench."
Cyrilla sat in shock. She never expected the young boy to be so offensive. "I meant no offense."
"To me? Or my father?" Sirius said threateningly.
"To y-you, of course," said Cyrilla, unable to keep the stutter from escaping. The young heir's emotional tendency fluctuated in such an abrupt velocity that Cyrilla had no opportunity to even breathe correctly.
"Sirius!" called a voice of a little boy. A younger boy almost identical from Sirius, only less dynamic but above average, stepped into the light.
"Yes?" said Sirius innocently.
The raven haired boy looked from Sirius to Cyrilla and back again. "Mum needs your help."
"My help?" said Sirius incredulously.
"That's what she said."
Sirius puffed in exasperation, striding out the room with what faintly sounded like, "She probably needs me to be disposed of." Cyrilla wondered if she heard wrong. She looked over at the younger Black.
He looked back.
"I'm Regulus."
She sat up a little straighter, blushing internally at how she cowered before Sirius. "I'm Cyrilla Lupin. Are you perhaps the youngest child?"
Regulus rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately, yes."
Without another word, he left the room, leaving Cyrilla to tend for herself. The silence of the empty room calmed her. It was better company than the tangible Black brothers. While she sat and waited, Cyrilla thought of her little boy.
-
"Sirius Orion Black! How dare you romp around with filthy Muggles?"
"I didn't even speak with anyone!" said Sirius, shouting with anger.
"Did you take a shower after coming home?"
"Mother--"
"You could be disease ridden--"
"I am not--"
After the constant interruptions, Sirius had had enough, and from the stiff grumble he deduced his father did as well.
To hinder the argument he knew would last for days, Sirius blurted, "There's a woman out there waiting--"
"A woman!" his mother shrieked.
Sirius winced. A little irritated at being interrupted once again.
"—for you," he continued. "On business."
He hoped the last insertion would cool his mother's fancy of an affair. It only made it worse.
"Is she a whore, Orion?" she spit out.
Orion Black massaged his brow in annoyance.
"How long?"
Orion looked up at his wife.
"How long," she repeated, "have you been with this whore?"
"I don't see how this is any of your concern." Walburga steamed. "We are husband and wife by marriage. Love held no such countenance and commitment."
"Even so," said Walburga, "we have a commitment to each other with or without love."
Sirius tipped out to the door and up the stairs. Through the crack below the door, the shadows of his parent's whipped around, and the voices rose without the impediment of their son. After his escapee, Sirius felt extremely drained. The cushion of the soft comforter lulled him to sleep.
The clock was set for five o' clock.
-
The annoying ringing from the clock went on for seconds and escalated around the walls. A hand appeared out of the crumble of blankets and hunted for the source. Once the hand had contacted the object, the commencement of banging in search for the off switch—the timepiece crashed from the side table, the excessive ringing clamoring against the border in deathly war zone. The arm limped against the bed. The body showed no signs of humoring life.
Sporadic, wild tangles of hair appeared from the shaggy mountain of satin sheets and disappeared behind his cover, repeating the actions once more as if unsure of the state position.
Sirius heaved with grief and slumped back into the cloud fantasy of a dream.
Just as his curtains drooped and readily fastened locks, Regulus bounded into the room and, as sudden as his entrance, the young boy fell over the body of his elder brother—the corpses of prisoners lay hollow with sleep.
"Wake—up—Sirius," Regulus mumbled into the comforter.
Sirius muttered and swatted his brother.
"I have…to wake…you…up…" said Regulus in such a dazed voice.
Sirius rolled over. In one of his many efforts to banish his brother, the elder child kicked his legs. The excess movement only alerted his conscience with sweat stinging his pupils, instantly and temporary blinding the young heir.
What felt like morning to Sirius was actually just a couple of hours since he started his nap. Although still very early, Regulus felt exhausted from the fumes emitted with the presence of both father and mother.
When Walburga found her sons—one of whom she sent to awake the other—both glued to the beds as if their souls had found peace in discreet fantasies, she was tremendously enraged. Not only had she sent Regulus to call his brother to get dressed, but she then happens upon their obvious dismissal of daytime.
Walburga rapped against the nearest article, which happen to be Sirius's now-missing-hour-table.
The boys continued with bare snores.
She pounded her fist.
Sirius yapped his morning mouth but slept on. Regulus moaned, but he made no move to abandon his sweet comfort.
With swift steps Walburga came directly above the boys and ripped the blanket from under Regulus, forcing him into the carpet floor, and Sirius without a cover from the early chill.
Regulus groaned from his position below. He looked up to see a large, angry chin staring—or at least he discerned from the immense threatening beams—in twin directions.
"You're up early this morning, Mum."
Walburga raised an eyebrow.
Sirius fumbled with his stability. His eyes blinked into and out of focus, accentuating his mother's scowl with bushy fields of hair.
"Good morning, Mum. Had a good night?" Sirius beamed drowsily.
From Orion's room Kreacher skipped with fright, and in the drawing room Orion read on as if such was normalcy and order.
Later that evening while Orion and his wife prepared for the dinner party, beside each other in silence, an older house-elf aided the boys for their preparation. Kreacher proceeded as their clothes hanger. Sirius swatted away the old maid's prying hands. She dipped her head in submission.
Sirius buttoned his vest. He could tell this was going to be as revolting as the many other family get-togethers.
-
The party died down.
Orion insisted on accompanying his cousin the Earl Malfoy. The men stepped behind the women, conversing in politics the witches preferred to scorn.
Sirius watched the visitors leave. Speaking of visitors, he wondered if that woman was granted an audience with his father.
He went inside.
-
The coach wriggled over loose stones of granite. The duo couples had entered the forest pass—a shortcut to the Malfoy's grand mansion. The company agreed that the fastest route was ideal, but they didn't anticipate the difficult of the course.
The Earl, faced forward, hands wielding over his cane with an impeccable posture, had his eyes closed with a respectable air. Orion watched him curiously, though it was difficult. The bumps along the road sent flinches through his body. The women fared no better. Their dresses would flap up and around in a frenzy, white underclothes covering their knees and corner of the luxurious couch, as they tried to calm their own beating heart.
Suddenly, the coach fell lopsided in a ditched. Orion held onto the seat; Walburga and the Earless lurched onto their husbands. The Earless had the misfortune of banging her shoulder into her husband's silver cane.
The horses gave whining keens, but from the lack of calls Orion estimated a few deaths in the reduction. The straps were still fastened to the horses, so when they wrestled with the weight of the coach and the slope, the wizards and witches gravitated toward the roof.
Orion spit cloths of the elaborate dress. He could barely take in enough oxygen. He wondered how Walburga could breathe with such a tight corset beneath the mountains of bags.
The Earl tested the handle of the coach. He kicked the door repeatedly until it yielded. Oxygen flooded in, relieving them of certain stress.
The group smoothed their clothing and bounced back to their normal stance. Orion surveyed the surroundings, which felt oddly like the Dark Forest. It must have been the stereotypic morbid atmosphere.
Walburga eyed the driver's bench. "Where is the driver?"
That caught everyone's attention. They searched for the serviceman with no avail; there was neither corpse nor spirit in the ditch except for the mangled body of the horses.
Orion felt eyes burning into his flesh; the hairs on his neck stood up. He turned stiffly.
Malfoy watched the scene fold with cold eyes.
Whispering. Then, a heavy drop.
Orion flickered back to a body—his wife's peerless eyes and frozen expression bore a hole into his memory. He gulped.
Before he could respond, his body froze, and he numbed against the world before him. They didn't kill him with the Avera Kedarva. Just a drip of acid would due.
The Malfoys left him there with the body of his wife. Before he died, Orion thought of his sons. He thought of Regulus. And Sirius.
Although Sirius rebelled against his parental, Orion saw him as the infant in his arms so many years before. They had so much hope for him; Orion and Walburga did. He was, after all, named for the brightest of the stars. Was it so wrong, Orion thought, to ask from such a son? He would die without ever reconciling with his son. Sirius wouldn't even grieve for them, but maybe that was for the best.
-
The green ivy wrapped delicately by an artisan around the best coffin money can buy. The graveyard was beautifully landscaped and the fields covered with bouquets and spinners for their loved ones. A raven child stood in silence with the rest of the crowd, his brother on the right as he was to his uncle, as members of close relationships wept, not for the death of these fateful—if not hateful—couples but for the lost of a score mark from the battle of pureblood restoration.
Wealth cannot buy the love desired from the family because emotions of such were stripped bare with a single caress. The oath of a brother brought the family a loving farewell; the quota brought pureblood aristocratic connections together. In the end one shall leave without chains; the other shall pry for escape between the iron gates with no avail—for love cannot be overcome with ease.
Rain alleviated the cries and moans of the graveyard.
Mothers gossiped in groups as they spotted a potential husband for their daughter. The current target was one Sirius Black.
The raven haired child looked over at the girls in their ruffled dresses, silk gloves, and veils put away. The girls mistook his intentions and started a fit of giggling and flirtatious pouting.
He leaned over to Regulus and whispered without taking his striking face away from the hoard of females, "They look like overgrown toads." His brother smiled but said nothing. He smoothed out his suit and smirked.
"One might be your bride one day," said Uncle Alphard, amused. Apparently he wasn't as discreet as he had thought.
Humor sunk right out of the orphan. The comment reminded him of his parents, which reminded him they were no longer here. He couldn't help but feel that everything rushed pass him like the zipping of the magic, and time allowed him no hour for comprehension. Sirius looked at his uncle, searching and needing a role to play. Uncle Alphard watched the passerby emotionless. When he felt an eye upon him, he looked around and then down at his nephew. In Sirius's eyes emotion stirred in such a cauldron that Uncle Alphard couldn't determine.
As the crowd ebbed away, Uncle Alphard said wistfully, "I'm sure he's enjoying life, albeit dead sans children."
Uncle Alphard said no more until it was announced he would adopt the Black children.
Review?
A/N: I know. It's been a while. Sorry for the terrible writing!