"Master Sirius is expected for breakfast this morning."
A croaky voice jarred Sirius from his sleep. He groggily opened an eye to find before him a gnarled old snout with hairy, bat-like ears. He gave a shout of surprise.
"Gah! Kreacher, how many times do I have to tell you I hate waking up to your wretched face? It's enough to give a person nightmares."
Kreacher didn't dignify this with a response. He merely gave Sirius a stern look and said, "Kreacher's Mistress is asking him to wake Master Sirius, so Kreacher is waking Master Sirius."
Sirius threw a pillow at him, which the elf dodged with surprising agility.
"Kreacher has drawn Master Sirius a bath," the elf announced with solemn duty, then he slunk out of the room. Well, that was something, at least. Morning had come quicker than Sirius would've liked. He'd stayed up late the night before, dreading the ticking clock, dreading the morning.
Today was Christmas Eve. Today he would be dragged off to Black Hall, the home of his hated cousins, for the annual Christmas party. Pour him a champagne flute of arsenic and he just might have a good time.
Grudgingly awake, Sirius groaned, stretched out on the bed, then slouched off to the bath with a resigned sigh.
Kreacher was as good as his word, and Sirius sunk into sweetly-scented bathwater that was neither as boiling nor as icy as he had anticipated. Evidently the elf's loyalty to his Mistress's wishes outweighed his dislike for her eldest son. Sirius closed his eyes and stewed for a bit. He'd made it four whole days into the Christmas holiday without incident. So far, his family had been scraping the edge of tolerable. Regulus had stayed holed up in his room as much as possible doing Merlin knows what. His father was ignoring him, which was ideal, and his mother had only lost her temper twice, the last time advising him in escalating tones not to "make a spectacle" at the party.
He indulged for a moment in his favorite fantasy of showing up to the Christmas party in ripped Muggle jeans and that leather jacket he'd bought that his mother hated so much. Just as he was perfecting the image — his mother's apoplectic face, like a balloon about to burst, Narcissa fainting in horror at the sight of him — the lock on the bathroom door clicked, and the long shadow of a woman slipped through.
"So it's true. The prodigal son returns."
Momentarily startled by the intrusion, Sirius quickly composed himself and glared coolly up into the face of his eldest cousin. "What do you want, Bellatrix?"
Bellatrix smiled. She was widely considered beautiful, Sirius knew, with heavy-lidded eyes and dark hair that fell in thick locks down her back, but Sirius felt nothing but disgust and a touch of horror at the sight of her. "Why," said Bellatrix in a sickly-sweet voice, "it's just been so long since I've seen my favorite wittle cousin. I could hardly believe it when Reggie wrote to say you were being a good boy and coming home after all."
Sirius felt a burst of anger towards his brother. Why would he tell her? Why would he write this bitch at all?
Bellatrix perched herself on the edge of the clawfoot tub and eyed him with a look like a jackal circling its prey. "I just had to see for myself. The stories one hears about you, Sirius, love. They're quite appalling." At this, she trawled her hand through the bubbles in the bath and brushed a soapy finger across his nose. If Sirius hadn't left his wand in his bedroom, he might've blasted her own nose right off that sneering face. Would that count as 'making a spectacle?'
"Why are you here, baby cousin?" asked Bellatrix, leaning uncomfortably close.
Sirius forced himself to remain relaxed, as though her presence didn't bother him in the slightest, as though he wasn't aching to beat her senseless with a chunk of soap. He knew how Bellatrix operated. A whiff of fear only encouraged her. Lounging in the tub, he yawned. "It's my house."
Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. "Is it, though? Your house? Tell me, are you trying to rejoin the flock, my little black sheep?"
Sirius let out a harsh laugh. "You just can't stand it, can you? You can't stand that I'm the heir, that I get everything. All of Bella's toys go to naughty little Sirius. But whose fault is that? Black family traditions, eh? You and my mad old mum are exactly the same, frothing with rage over the very traditions you so desperately want to uphold. Mummy had to leave Black Hall and move to ugly old London. And Bella? What does she get? Nothing but a stringy, rotten husband she only bought for the brand name."
That wiped the smile off his cousin's face. She stood sharply and walked over to the sink, gazing at him through the mirror's reflection. Sirius smirked at her in triumph. Everything he said, he knew, rang true. Bellatrix's husband was a stringy old bastard, and no one fooled themselves into thinking their match was anything more than an exercise in good breeding.
"Do you really think you're so secure in your inheritance?" Bellatrix asked softly, picking up a razor and gently trailing her fingers along its blade. "Do you really think they'll let you — you, the blood traitor — become the heir of the Black fortune?"
"Going to kill me, Bella?"
His cousin set the razor down and turned to face him, that twisted smile back on her face. She leaned casually against the ceramic sink. "You're not the only male heir available to us, wittle cousin. You'd do well to remember that." Then she sighed. "How time has changed us. Do you remember what fun we used to have, when we were children? You…me…and little Reggie."
And with that, she left.
Sirius simmered in the tub, trying not to let her get to him, trying to dam up the deluge of memories threatening his mind. With a grunt of frustration, he submerged himself in the bath. Images flooded him.
Regulus in the tub, underwater, spluttering, spitting, struggling…
"Stop!" Sirius cried. "What are you doing?"
"Why," said Bella with her schoolgirl plaits and her twisted smile, "it's a baptism."
Sirius bolted up, spraying water across the green-tiled floor, coughing, choking on the memory. He pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in his palms.
"And if you don't help me, baby cousin, you're next…"
Bellatrix was gone by the time Sirius descended the stairs for breakfast. In fact, the dining room was empty except for his father who sat stiffly at the head of the table, sipping a cup of tea and reading the Daily Prophet. His father ignored him, a favor Sirius was happy to return. He ate his poached eggs in silence, wishing he could read the Prophet as well, but unwilling to ask his father for a section.
When he was finished, Sirius set his fork down with a faint clatter and pushed back his chair. His father cleared his throat, and for a moment Sirius thought he was going to speak, but the man merely adjusted his reading glasses and flipped the page.
Sirius left.
He climbed the stairs heavily, supposing he'd just go back to his bedroom and wait until the next meal he was obliged to attend, but when he reached the topmost landing, he hesitated by the room next to his own. There was a little sign placed on the door, and Sirius recognized his brother's fastidiously neat handwriting. It read:
Do Not Enter
Without the Express Permission
of Regulus Arcturus Black
Sirius snorted. That was new. Rolling his eyes, he shot a quick Alohomora at the lock and pushed through the door into his brother's bedroom. Regulus was seated at his desk, bent over a book. He turned sharply as Sirius barged in. "You could at least knock," his brother said resentfully.
Sirius ignored this. "Why'd you tell Bellatrix I was coming home for Christmas?"
"What?"
"Bellatrix. Why did you tell her?"
Regulus merely blinked. "I told Cissy. She asked. They were all going to find out eventually."
"What are you playing at?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Sirius glared at his brother for a long moment, then he crossed the room and stood by the window, gazing out over the street. Fresh snow had covered the little square over night, making it very nearly pretty. But not quite. He turned back to face his brother. "I'm only here because you dragged me here, and so far, I can't figure out why you bothered. Why'd you make it such a big deal that I came for this stupid party?"
"Because it is a big deal!"
"They don't want me here any more than I want to be here."
"That's not true. Mother would be humiliated if you didn't show up tonight."
Sirius let out a derisive snort. Of course, his mother wanted her eldest there, her heir. There were appearances to keep up, after all. It was all such a pathetic charade. He turned away in disgust and found himself face to face with the Black family crest. He glowered at it and those terrible, accusatory words that hung below like a curse, like a threat: Toujours Pur. Regulus had painted it over his bed years ago, but it never failed to repulse Sirius. It was embarrassing how hard his brother tried to curry mummy's favor.
But then his eyes drifted below the crest to a cluster of papers pinned there. He moved closer to the bed to peer at what he now saw were Prophet clippings. Regulus made a jerky, uncomfortable movement at this, but Sirius ignored him. He leaned over the bed to read the headlines. They were all about Death Eaters.
"What the hell is this?" said Sirius, very quietly.
"That's none of your b-business—"
"What the hell is this, Reg? Some sort of shrine? What are you, a Death Eater groupie?"
"So I read the news, what's wrong with that?"
"What, do you wank off to it, too?" Sirius ripped a clipping from the wall, and Regulus flinched. "'Two Muggles dead in Yorkshire ambush,'" Sirius read aloud. "'Death Eaters suspected behind the attack.' Is this what you want to be?"
"Cissy s-says—"
"Well, if Cissy s-s-s-says, it must be right," snarled Sirius. "Fucking hell, Reg. I knew you were an idiot, but I never realized just how stupid you were."
"Me?" said Regulus with a surprising burst of vehemence. "I'm the stupid one? You're the one throwing in your alliance with the Mudbloods and b-blood traitors."
"Better a blood traitor than a murderer."
"Do you know what they say about you in the Slytherin common room?"
"I really don't give the faintest fuck."
"Well, you should. It's humiliating — for me, as well as you. They say you're Potter's dog, always scuttering along after him, licking his boots—"
Sirius was unable to suppress a snort of amusement at this.
"Think that's funny, do you?" said Regulus.
"A bit, yeah," admitted Sirius.
"Have you no pride? Have you no respect for your own name, your own blood-line? Your own family?"
It was discomfiting how much he sounded like their mother. Sirius hugged his arms to his chest, glowering. "No. None. And if you had the tiniest trace of a moral compass, Reg, you wouldn't either."
"Cissy says they've brainwashed you."
"Oh, that's rich, coming from the boy who starts every other sentence with 'Cissy says.'"
"She says it's a defense mechanism," Regulus persisted, "that you're forced to spend all your time in Gryffindor with — with those people — people like the Potters — and so you've become like them, just to survive."
"That's right," said Sirius, his voice so laden with sarcasm that even earnest little Reg couldn't miss it. "The Muggle-borns and half-breeds are holding me hostage." He steepled his hands in a pantomime of prayer. "Oh help me, Cissy, please!"
"We could, you know," said Regulus quietly.
Sirius stared at him, and at last, he understood. He burst out laughing, though there was no humor in his voice. "Is that why you forced me to come home? To stage an intervention?"
"I didn't force you to do anything," said Regulus. "I asked and you agreed. You chose this."
Sirius couldn't argue with that. He had chosen this. He'd been given every opportunity to turn his back on this place, these people — and he'd pushed James away instead. He felt a pang as he remembered their argument in the dormitory, the wounded look on James's face. They'd hardly spoken since — just one long and miserably quiet train ride back to London.
Sirius suddenly felt tired, beaten down. "What do you want from me, Reg?"
"I want my brother back."
"I'm right here. I'm right fucking here in fucking Grimmauld Place because you asked me to be. And let me tell you something: I regret it." He marched back to the collage of Prophet clippings and ripped a handful of pages off the wall. He shoved them into Regulus's face. "Because if this is what you're becoming? If this is what you want to be? Then you're not worth my fucking time."
He threw the clippings at Regulus and strode from the room without another word, bits of newspaper still fluttering to the floor as the door slammed shut behind him.
The rest of the day was spent slumped on his bed in a gloom of lethargy. Once or twice he thought he heard Regulus's door creak open, the soft scuff of feet stopping just outside his own door, but no knock followed.
So Narcissa really had got her claws into him. He knew Regulus loved her; she doted on him, and she always had, even before he'd been elevated to the seat of favored son. And now Cissy was marrying a man who was undoubtedly a supporter of You-Know-Who and Regulus was tacking up photos of Death Eaters like Quidditch stars. Sirius had always regretted Narcissa's influence on his brother, but if Reg couldn't see for himself that murdering people was wrong, why was Sirius even bothering with him? What was he even here for?
Eventually, Kreacher appeared and announced it was time to get dressed. Now Sirius stood before the mirror in his room, tugging at the collar of his robes. They were new and very stiff. He looked at himself and cringed. Dressed in intricately embroidered navy silk, he looked every bit the part of the perfect, pure-blood princeling. He briefly revisited the idea of the leather jacket, then shook his head, grimaced at his reflection, and slouched his way downstairs.
His family was waiting for him in the kitchen by the cavernous fireplace. It was evening, and they were fashionably late for the party. Regulus, dressed in robes of handsome green, was folded in a chair, absorbed in some book, while his father was sipping a snifter of brandy and perusing the Evening Prophet with apparent disdain. His mother alone was in motion, barking orders to Kreacher, who rushed about the kitchen, eager to oblige.
"There you are!" she snapped as Sirius entered. Then she paused, taking in his appearance, undoubtedly looking for something to criticize. She sniffed. "Try not to get ash on your new robes. You look surprisingly decent for once."
Sirius gave her an exaggerated bow and marched towards the fireplace. "Let's get this freak show on the road then."
His mother sniffed again. "Kreacher!" The house-elf jumped to attention. "The gifts," she said impatiently, rolling her eyes as the elf rushed about, buckling under a pile of packages three times his own weight. Then with a crack the elf disappeared to deliver the gifts to Black Hall and announce their imminent arrival.
"Well?" His mother glared imperiously around at them all; his father rose with a sigh, finished his brandy, and without a look at his family, he grabbed a fistful of Floo powder and stepped through the grate. Regulus scurried along next, and then it was Sirius's turn. "Black Hall," he said morosely, and he stepped through.
The difference from the dank kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place to the glittering chamber in which he had arrived was startling. The room, flanked with fireplaces on either side, had been decked from wainscoting to cornice with baubles and holly. House-elves hurried to and fro, taking cloaks, offering refreshments. Even the portraits on the wall, of which there were hundreds, had been ornamented for the occasion, either with festive hats or swags of mistletoe. The room had obviously been decorated to make an impression, and, blinking against the thousand flickering fairy lights, Sirius had to admit they succeeded.
His mother arrived a moment later and looked about disdainfully, muttering to herself: "Yes, well, they may have the portrait gallery, but Druella will never get her grubby little fingers on the family tree."
"Shall we go through?" said his father in a bored voice, dumping his cloak on an elf.
The chamber led out to the main hall, which was even more lavishly decorated than the room they'd just left. The hall rose in great arches three stories high so that the guests could look down from the second and third-floor landings onto the glittering party below. An enormous fir tree had been levitated in the center of the room, strung with silver garlands and wisps of tinsel, and charmed to rotate slowly, giving the effect of an enormous, conical disco ball. The party was in full swing, the room filled with witches and wizards in their finery, chatting and laughing and drinking and boasting. It looked, Sirius thought gloomily, like a special circle of hell designed just for him.
"Some party," said Regulus from beside him.
"Don't talk to me," growled Sirius. "I'm still furious with you."
Regulus rolled his eyes, but before he could respond, there was a shrill, delighted cry, and Narcissa rushed forward in a flurry of kisses. "Aunt Walburga! How wonderful it is to see you. Uncle Orion, always a treat. Darling Reggie, give me a kiss. You must tell me all about the Quidditch team! Rabastan's written, of course, says you're perfectly marvelous, but I want to hear it all from you. And Sirius…we weren't sure you'd make it. How wonderful."
"Careful, Narcissa," said Sirius, deftly dodging her proffered cheek. "Too sweet and I might vomit all over your freshly-polished floors."
"Oh, you," Narcissa said with a tinkling laugh, swatting his arm. She was dressed in cream-colored robes lined with lace trimmings, her hair ornamented with pearls. Sirius had the distinct impression she was trying to look as bridal as possible. An obscenely large diamond adorned her delicate finger, and she appeared to have perfected the exact angle at which to display it for maximum dazzle. She turned back to his parents. "Come see mama and papa, they've been so anxious for you to arrive."
Narcissa led them through the party to her parents. Uncle Cygnus was a short man with a twisted goatee and a belligerent mouth that had clearly downed several drinks already. Aunt Druella, on the other hand, was a tall and glamorous woman, dressed in robes of blood red with a plunging, fur-trimmed neckline.
"Hussy," he heard his mother hiss under her breath.
If Druella heard, she did not show it. "Walburga, how charming to see you. You are looking so well for a woman of your age…tell me, how do you do it?"
"The blood of virgins," offered Sirius, before he could stop himself. "There's a ritual sacrifice every new moon. Big hullaboo at Grimmauld Place. Makes an awful mess, though."
Regulus dug his elbow into Sirius's side, but Druella merely blinked her heavy-lidded lashes. "Sirius. How lovely you could make it." She gave him a thoroughly unpleasant look that suggested otherwise, then turned back to his parents. "Are you all parched from your travels?" she asked, as though they had trekked from Tibet rather than simply stepped through a fireplace. "Can I get you some drinks?"
"A brandy would be sublime," said Sirius's father.
"Of course. Come with me."
The two of them went off. His mother watched them leave, eyes narrowed.
"Walburga, old girl!" cried Cygnus with drunken enthusiasm. "Alphie and I were just talking about you, come and have a drink, won't you?"
"I need a drink," muttered Sirius, and he snatched a flute of champagne off a house-elf's tray and emptied its contents into his mouth.
He somehow managed to give his family the slip and spent the next half-hour loitering without incident, dodging various relations with an agility that would've won him the Quidditch Cup. Having procured a few particularly strong drinks (house-elves, he mused, were good for some things), he retreated to as unobtrusive a wall as he could find and wondered if it would be too much to ask to be ignored for the rest of the night.
It was.
"Well, look who it is," said a low voice. Sirius turned and saw Adam Avery, a fifth year Slytherin and an absolute prick. His girlfriend Isolde Greengrass was with him, and wanna-be-bodyguard Evan Rosier lurked behind, clutching a small bouquet of toothpicked hors d'oeuvres in one clenched fist.
Sirius inclined his head to the group in a gesture of mock civility. "Avery. Rosier. How smashing to see you."
"I must admit, Black," said Avery, "I'm surprised you showed up."
"Everyone keeps saying that, but the last time I checked, those are my salmon puffs your flunky is cramming into his face. Maybe you should read the invitation closer next time. Black Christmas Party. Sirius Black. Of course, it helps if you can read," he added with a nod at Rosier.
"Always the comedian," said Avery coolly while Rosier scowled, undoubtedly beginning to work out that he'd been insulted. "I didn't think there would be enough Mudbloods and half-breeds here for your taste."
"Well, that's true," said Sirius. "I do prefer a wider genetic pool from which to choose." He glanced at Isolde, who was clinging to Avery's arm with a sort of simpering sneer. Sirius grinned at the two of them. "I see you've given up snogging your sister and upgraded to your cousin. Well done, Avery, old boy."
This went over about as well as Sirius had intended: Avery seemed about to draw his wand, but Sirius laughed harshly. "Are you going to hex the host's nephew? Frightfully bad manners, that would be. Imagine the uproar."
"Come on, Adam," said Isolde, giving Sirius her most disdainful glare. "Let's not waste our breath on this blood traitor."
"Ouch," said Sirius, placing his hand over his heart. "That hurt my feelings."
And the three Slytherins strutted off in haughty indignation. Rosier turned and made a rude gesture with his free hand, which Sirius heartily returned. If he'd been at Hogwarts, he would've hexed them.
Eventually, the need to refill his drink forced him to rejoin the crowds. He searched through the teeming ballroom for a house-elf, but all the little buggers seemed to have disappeared. He felt the cold wave of sobriety ebbing against his brow and knew that this was an unacceptable state of affairs. If he had to be here, he'd at least be bloody well sloshed. He continued his search, nearly knocking into a brittle old woman he thought might be a great-aunt who was saying to her friend, "Can you believe it, Dottie came around the other week — you know, she's always got some charitable project, it must be so dull for her in that little house — she wants to raise money for the widows of Muggle victims! What's next, spare bones for dogs?"
At last, he spotted an elf, hovering by the staircase that led to the upper landings. He made a bee-line for it and snatched the last glass of champagne off its tray with a victorious 'huzzah.' It was only as he began to drain its contents that he realized his quest had led him right to the belly of the beast: His mother was descending the stairs with Uncle Alphard in arm. Sirius quickly ducked into the shadow of the staircase, hoping against hope they wouldn't spot him. Luckily, they were far too absorbed in their own conversation to notice.
"How can you be so unfeeling?" demanded his mother. "Don't you care at all about the future of the Blacks, the legacy of our ancestors?"
"Not particularly," said Alphard, taking a healthy pinch of snuff. He wrinkled his nose in enjoyment. Then he gave Sirius's mother a keen look. "What is it the French say? Après moi, le déluge."
His mother's face warped into a snarl. "How father could ever bear to let inheritance fall to a scoundrel like you—"
"Careful, Wally, darling, or one might accuse you of disloyalty to the absolute wisdom of the ancient ways."
His mother took a shuddering breath and tried again. "Your nephew, who appears to be doing all he can to follow in your abominable footsteps, is the heir of the Black family—"
"Is he really? I must've forgotten. No one's mentioned it to me for…" Alphard glanced at his watch. "…twenty-nine seconds. For that matter, I don't see what all your fuss is about. Your son is the heir. One day, this whole circus will be his. Isn't that what you've always wanted? Doesn't that warm the cockles of your cold little heart?"
"There are complications, as you very well know—"
"Yes," said Alphard, sounding bored. "But lucky for us all, you've done well. Provided us an heir and a spare."
"But in the meantime, Alphie, there are appearances to keep up, as Blacks—"
"And yet, Cygnus doesn't constantly badger me to cover his debts."
"That's because Cygnus married that tart for her money!"
"You disapprove of the Rosiers now? Careful, soon there will be no suitable families left to marry your sons. We can't all wed our cousins, Wally."
His mother made a furious, constricted noise, like the hiss of a steam train. "You corrupted, feeble-minded little fool. You foul, selfish—"
"Don't work yourself up into a lather, Wally love. I'll write you the bloody check. I just like to see you foam at the mouth a bit first." And he sauntered off, looking amused.
Sirius slipped away hurriedly, not wanting to be caught in the aftermath of his mother's rage. What's more, his head was beginning to spin. He found refuge in the Music Room, a small, elegant chamber off the main hall. It was empty, though as festively decorated as the rest of the manor. The silver damasked walls sparkled in the reflection of a hundred hovering candles, and strings of holly were twined around the tall windows before which a grand piano was placed. Sirius sat down heavily on the piano's bench. He was familiar with the room; he'd given many a recital here in years past. The memories of bruised fingers and the sharp prods of a governess's wand swept over him like a tidal wave. Or maybe that was just nausea from all the liquor.
He glared at the piano. It was not something his friends knew much about; indeed, it was not something he advertised, but Sirius was rather musically gifted. At least, that's what an early governess told his mother, and thus Sirius had spent the remaining years of his childhood bloodying his fingers over a violin, laboring over repetitive piano exercises for hours on end. He'd grown to hate it, but there were moments of peace in there too, moments when the governess would leave him alone, when his mother would shut up, when he could lose himself in the intricacies of the music. It was hard to describe, and Sirius felt like a proper twit when he tried, so he didn't.
Glancing at the door to check that it was closed, he lifted the sleek black fall board of the piano and ran his fingers over the keys. It had been a while since he'd played, but his fingers seemed to remember more than he did, and soon he slid from the repetitions that had dictated so many hours of his childhood…to a more complicated composition…to something he'd only ever heard on the Muggle radio…the one he used to hide under his bed…back before his mother had discovered it and gone on a rampage, throwing out everything in his room that wasn't literally stuck to the walls...
"That's pretty."
Sirius's fingers leapt from the piano as though the keys had suddenly been transfigured to hot coals. He looked up to see Narcissa hovering by the door. He'd been so wrapped up in his playing that he hadn't noticed her entrance.
"Is it Barkwith?" she asked, referencing one of the many Wizarding composers he'd been forced to study.
"The Beatles."
She shut the door carefully behind her. "I don't know what that means, but I expect I don't want to." His cousin sighed and sat down prettily on a velvet chaise. "Bunny Burke told me she saw you run off this way. You're not hiding from us, are you?"
Sirius glared at her. "It's not my sort of party."
Narcissa gave him a sympathetic smile. She seemed to want to play nice. "You know, when Reggie said you were coming home for the holiday after all, we were all so pleased."
Sirius snorted. "Relieved, more like. There are appearances to keep up, after all."
"Have it your way." She stood and strolled over to the piano, running her slender fingers along its edge. The diamond engagement ring glinted in the light of the candles. "You know, I remember when you were eight years old, and Aunt Walburga gathered everyone in here to watch you perform. You played a Barkwith piece…which was it?"
"The Warlock's Revenge," muttered Sirius.
"That's right. You were stunning. We were all so impressed. Your mother was just beaming with pride. Do you remember?"
"Yes," said Sirius coldly, and he did. "I remember practicing for hours and hours until my fingers were numb. I remember dear old mother twisting my wrist and telling me not to disgrace her in front of everyone—"
"You're determined to make everything miserable, aren't you?"
"Well, it's not hard around here."
Narcissa took a deep breath, regrouped, and tried a different tactic. "I know it must be difficult for you. I know sometimes you must feel the cards have been stacked against you, what with your Sorting—"
"Being sorted into Gryffindor was the best thing that ever happened to me," Sirius snapped.
"So you've said. But surely it must get tiresome, always spoiling for a fight. Haven't you ever wondered if things might've been easier, being in Slytherin like you were supposed to?"
Sirius didn't respond. Of course he'd wondered about it, agonized over it. Ever since his fateful Sorting, he'd always had a vague sense of being out of place. As though, among the virtuous Gryffindors, he alone harbored a terrible secret…that there'd been a mistake after all…that he actually was a Slytherin, and one day they'd all find out, and James and Remus and Peter would all hate him the way they hated Snivellus.
What would he be today if he'd been sorted into Slytherin? Would he be out there at the party, sipping cocktails with his classmates, laughing over Muggle murders? Was that really all that separated him from his family? One fateful word from a battered old hat? One choice?
Like a familiar ghost, he heard the Sorting Hat whisper in his ear: You already know where you belong, then?
Narcissa was watching him closely, misreading the anguished look that flashed across his face. She sat down on the bench beside him. "It doesn't have to be like this, you know," she said softly. "You know it doesn't. You can still come back. Your time at Hogwarts has been…less than ideal, your alliances…unfortunate, but none of that is irreversible, don't you see? Your position can still be salvaged."
"Or what? You'll excommunicate me like you did to Andy?"
Narcissa flinched. He knew she had been especially hurt by what she saw as her sister's betrayal. "Andy had a choice too," she said, and there was a touch of flint in her tone. "Things could've been…arranged. She didn't have to run off with that Mudblood and make a whore of herself."
There was a long, shuddering pause, then Narcissa asked: "Have you heard from her?"
"We've exchanged owls." This was a lie. He'd heard nothing from Andromeda. He'd written to her a handful of times but never received a single letter in return. He'd thought she might write to him, at least, but she seemed to have cut off the entirety of the Black family as thoroughly as they had her. And Sirius, like it or not, was still a Black.
"Is she — is she happy?" asked Narcissa, and there was a note of longing in her voice.
"Well, she's far away from you lot, so I expect she must be."
Narcissa looked as though she'd been slapped. When she spoke, her voice was strained. "You don't need to be cruel. I'm trying to help you. Perhaps you're so insulated in Gryffindor that you haven't noticed, but England is changing. The world is changing, Sirius. Big things are coming, and I must admit, I fear for you."
Sirius stood, swaying a little, and headed for the door. He shot her a disgusted look. "Spare me."
"Oh, if I could…you could be happy again, Sirius. Enough of this misfit loner misery—"
At this, Sirius laughed. "Happy? When have I ever been happy here? And you…Merlin, Cissy, look at you with that fat ring on your finger. You're a prize cow to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Are you happy?"
Narcissa's sweet manner slid from her face like mud. When she spoke, her voice was icy. "Go to hell, Sirius."
Sirius looked around in mock astonishment. "Aren't I already there?"
Okay. He was definitely drunk now, and not in a pleasant, black-out-the-next-few-hours kind of way. It was no longer only his head that was spinning, but the entirety of Black Hall. Maybe this was why the house-elves had been avoiding him. Clever buggers.
The twinkling fairy lights grew ever more offensive as he struggled with each step to suppress a rising swell of nausea. He didn't want Narcissa to catch up with him, however, so he lurched down another corridor and through a heavy wooden door. He'd only made it a few steps over the threshold when the contents of his stomach erupted and he doubled over, heaving. He felt immediately better after vomiting…until he looked up.
His father and his Aunt Druella were standing there, staring at him with a mixture of horror and revulsion. They'd had a moment to gather themselves while Sirius retched, but there was no mistaking the tousled hair, the smear of lipstick, the flushed faces.
Sirius stared back at them, equally appalled. Then he straightened himself up and walked out of the room with a simple, "Ta."
He had only made it a few steps down the hall, however, when he realized his father was following him. Sirius spun about, reeling for a fight, but his father grabbed him roughly by the arm and twisted it painfully.
"You will keep this to yourself," he growled to his son, "if you know what's good for you."
Sirius glared at him for a moment, considering a whole slew of foul language. "Of course," he said at last with mock civility. "Father knows best." Then he wrenched his arm away and staggered back to the party.
"There you are."
Sirius was suddenly aware that someone was standing next to him. He blinked. It was Regulus.
"Mother's been looking for you."
"The hell for?"
Regulus gave him a critical look, scrunching up his nose. "Are you drunk?"
"Not nearly enough," muttered Sirius. "Sobering up by the second."
Regulus shoved a glass into his hands. Sirius took an enthusiastic swig but was disappointed to discover it was merely water. "Pull yourself together," said Regulus. "You've still got to be presentable for at least another hour."
Sirius made a face, but he followed his brother back into the fray. A moment later, Regulus led him to a small circle of guests. His mother glared as he approached; Sirius ignored her. Uncle Alphard was there, deep in conversation with a dignified-looking wizard with muttonchop whiskers and an eyeglass. Narcissa and her fiancée Lucius Malfoy were also present, nodding along fervently with the conversation.
"The Ministry has long since proven itself to be committed to destroying everything for which we stand," the whiskered wizard was saying. "One must, of course, be cautious about how one navigates the current political waters, but Eugenia Jenkins in particular—"
"Now, now, Abraxas," said Alphard with a wry smile. "Planning another coup?"
"I am merely suggesting the pure-blood community stop passively allowing Mudblood activists to degrade our way of life."
"Quite right, father," said Lucius.
"Oh, I agree they're all a bunch of blood-suckers," said Alphard, "but politics does bore me so. What-ho, my good-for-nothing nephew!"
Alphard had noticed Sirius at last and pulled him into the circle, clapping him on the back. Alphard had always seemed to like his wayward nephew, though Sirius suspected this was because it irritated his mother so much. Lucius inclined his head in greeting to Sirius, who gave a mock bow in return. Narcissa shot him a nasty look, her pretty affectations of courtesy quite exhausted by their last encounter.
"Now here's one who can give us the inside scoop on these Mudblood activists, Abraxas. Spends his days in the belly of the beast, so to speak. Gryffindor, what!"
"Alphard," said Sirius's mother sharply, but Alphard swatted her away like an annoying fly.
"Tell me, Sirius, are these blood traitors and Muggle-lovers as pernicious as dear Abraxas would have us believe? Will these moral degenerates bring an end to our way of life?"
Sirius chewed his tongue. "Not soon enough, if you ask me."
His mother turned an exciting shade of fuchsia while Alphard let out a booming laugh. "Spirit! That's what this one has. Oh, you can bleat about bad behavior all you want, Wally, but you can't deny your son has the Black spirit. It's quite the same with horses, you know. The thoroughbred foals are always the flightiest."
"To return to our previous discussion—" began the older wizard stiffly.
"Ah, yes, the removal of Mudbloods from the Ministry. You think it prudent to pursue, Abraxas?"
"Indeed, I think it quite essential."
"I must say I agree," interjected Lucius. "And perhaps," he added with a small sneer in Sirius's direction, "we can even rid Hogwarts of its undesirables."
"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Sirius, flaring up at once.
"Don't be so rude, Sirius," his mother snapped.
Lucius did not seem offended by Sirius's tone, however. If anything, he seemed amused. "One can't expect a schoolboy to understand such things, but the Ministry is under a lot of pressure, Sirius. These are fraught times, and our community wishes to know that something is being done to protect them. Mudbloods are, and continue to be, a political liability. Their presence poses a dangerous threat to the innocent pure-bloods around them. Look at what happened to dear Harmonia Lufkin, for instance."
"Let me get this straight," said Sirius in a low voice, his hatred as palpable as the bile in his throat. "You put on a mask, run around with your Death Eater pals and murder a bunch of people, then scapegoat the Muggle-borns out of jobs and schooling?"
"Sirius," said Regulus in an urgent whisper from beside him.
"Baseless accusations!" barked Abraxas.
"You're disgusting," spat Sirius, his voice rising with his fury. "You and all your Death Eater friends!"
"Enough!" cried his mother.
"And you're a fool," said Lucius softly. "A fool who speaks of things he has no knowledge, no right—"
But Lucius didn't get to finish his sentence because at that moment Sirius lunged across the space between them and punched him in the face. Narcissa screamed, Alphard laughed uproariously, and Sirius felt himself yanked backwards by his hair, his mother dragging him towards the fireplaces. "HOME," she shrieked. "NOW."
"Don't have to tell me twice," snarled Sirius, glancing back to look at the hall of shocked party-goers. Narcissa was dabbing frantically at Lucius's nose with a lacy handkerchief. Sirius was pleased to see it was bleeding profusely. "BURN IN HELL, YOU EVIL TWAT," he hollered before his mother shoved him into the emerald flames.
Sirius fell onto the hard, stone hearth of the Grimmauld Place kitchen, coughing soot. Floo Powder wasn't the nicest way to travel in the best of circumstances, but being shoved through unprepared made the experience infinitely less comfortable.
A moment later, his mother's form appeared spinning out of the grate. Sirius scrambled up, both to avoid being trampled and to prepare for the inevitable fight.
It began almost immediately: The moment her heeled boots hit the hearth, he could feel the rage emanating from her body like tremors before a quake. "How dare you," she hissed, starting slowly, savoring the build-up to a good ol' screaming match. "How dare you disgrace the name of Black in such a public manner? Have you no shame?"
"Oh, I have plenty of shame," said Sirius, "but most of it's directed at you!" And then, knowing this would infuriate her all the more, he turned on his heel and stormed up the stairs. She followed him, as he knew she would, her fury mounting with each step.
"You abomination, you miserable, ungrateful little wretch! How can you be so vile, so hateful, so evil—"
"Evil!" laughed Sirius. They were on the second landing now. "You want to talk about evil? What about you lot, sitting around in your fancy houses, sipping champagne and giggling about murdering Muggles!"
"You have no respect for your class, for your ancestry, for your family! I didn't raise you to be a blood traitor, you shameful, Mudblood-loving swine!"
"No, you raised me to be a selfish, psychotic murderer — or at least you tried — but don't worry, you're doing a great job on Reg!"
"Never," shrieked his mother, "never in ALL my life have I EVER been so HUMILIATED—"
"Really?" crowed Sirius, throwing caution to the wind. "Never? Not even when your husband's caught necking the evil Aunt Dru?"
His mother blanched. "You liar, you foul little liar—"
"I saw them! I walked in on them hot and heavy with his hands all over her—"
WHAM.
His father's fist came out of nowhere, a sharp crack of knuckles against his jaw. Sirius hadn't even heard him come in. The punch was such a Muggle move that Sirius was tempted to deride his father, but he was distracted by the taste of iron in his mouth and the discomfiting wobble of one of his molars. He pressed a hand tenderly against his cheek and stared up at his father.
His father glowered back. No one spoke for a few moments, until he said, "You will apologize to your mother. You will go to your room, and you will not come out again until you are summoned. Kreacher will bring you your meals. I'll deal with you when I'm ready."
Sirius stood frozen for what felt like an eternity, his shoulders quaking with years of hatred. The metallic taste of blood seeped through his gums as he sought the right words. When they arrived, they surprised even him.
"And what if I say no?"