Notes: I don't have much to say regarding this chapter; if Sirius's father bears a striking resemblance to fanon!Lucius, it isn't my fault. Okay, it is. Feel free to yell at me about this.

Disclaimer: all herein belongs to JK Rowling. I am making no money; I am only having fun.

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

Chapter Two

White Sheep of the Family

Before my father could acknowledge my mother's knock, she flung the door open, pushed me inside, and slammed the door behind me, leaving me to stand in the doorway, doing my best to look composed for my father.

The nice thing about my father – really, the only nice thing about my father – is that it's possible to have a logical conversation with him. After spending extended amounts of time with my mother, it's almost a relief, even though my father always manages to twist logic into something horrible.

His study is a bit like horrible logic, really. It's all paneled in oak, so it looks dark even with the summer sun streaming through the blood-red velvet curtains in the floor-to-ceiling windows, as it was doing now. All along two sides of the room are shelves of books, great fat heavy books with faded peeling covers, books that rustle and whisper to each other like the books in the Hogwarts Library Restricted Section. At the far end of the room, down from a threadbare, once-magnificent runner carpet, is my father's large oak desk, situated between the two largest windows. My father likes to sit at that desk, as he was doing now, and stare deeply at whoever has just entered the room. He thinks doing that makes him look imposing.

I'll never give him the satisfaction of knowing, but it does make him look imposing.

"Sirius," he said in a cool, composed voice. I hate his voice. It sounds exactly like mine when I'm really angry and trying my hardest to keep from shouting. "Do come in." Of course, since I was already in the room, come in really meant come to my desk.

I walked slowly across his study, past the horrid books whispering on their shelves, down the runner carpet, a million miles from the door to his desk. When I reached my father, I simply stood there and stared out one of the windows beside his desk, gazing intently out at the boring rooftops of London. I could sense my father looking me over, taking in the blood on my lip, the bruise on my wrist, the red mark across my face.

"Oh dear," he said, sounding almost amused, "what have you done to get your mother upset so very quickly?"

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I looked at him. I hate my father's looks even more than I hate his voice, because he looks almost exactly how I expect I'll look at forty. We look painfully alike as it is, except that he wears his hair neat and short; I cut my hair for the O.W.L.s, so I could make a good impression, but I'm growing it out again, as much to look different from my father as for anything else.

"I haven't done anything," I told him. "I met her at the station, right after saying goodbye to my friends. She just … doesn't have the same taste I do."

My father's face quirked up into a smile, one of those very charismatic smiles that's immediately likeable and very untrustworthy. I try not to smile like that. "I see," my father murmured. "The company you keep, Sirius … Who is that friend of yours again? Potter?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Potter, Potter," my father repeated, saying the name almost like it was a rather intriguing species of insect. "He would be a half-blood, wouldn't he?"

"Both his parents are wizards," I said, hesitated a moment, and added, "not that it makes a difference."

My father chuckled, humoring me. "Ah yes, of course. And your other friends? What are their names?"

I really didn't want to tell him, and opened my mouth to tell him so, before seeing my father's wand lying inches from his fingertips, before seeing the coldly polite way he was looking at me. Mouth suddenly dry, I said, "Peter Pettigrew and Remus Lupin, Father."

He smiled his brilliant smile again. "Pettigrew. A … er, Muggle-born."

"I think so," I said, fidgeting. I hated interrogations, and I hated standing still for so long. "His mum's a Muggle, at least. His dad's dead – Peter doesn't talk about him much."

"Ah. And the other? Lupin?" my father said softly, scrutinizing me. He tilted his head thoughtfully sideways. "Your mother claims the boy is a werewolf. Is that true?"

I glanced down at my father's wand again. It was still easily within his grasp. Slowly, forcing the word out, I said, "Yes."

"Hmm." My father smiled. "Easily the best of your friends, I'm sure, for all his corruption." He steepled his fingers together, wand still within reach. "But all of them Gryffindors. Tell me, Sirius, do you make many points for Gryffindor?"

"Only the average," I said truthfully. Whatever extra I gained for knowing all the right answers in class, I lost in detention for myself and James' foolery.

"At least you are not the model Gryffindor, then," my father said, still smiling, though he said the word 'model' like my mother said 'scum'. "Still, Sirius, I do confess some disappointment, especially after what Regulus has done recently." He paused, obviously waiting for me to ask what wonderful thing my fifteen-year-old brother had done this time. When I remained stubbornly silent, my father continued, "I'm sure you've heard of the phrase black sheep of the family? This metaphor seems to apply well to you, Sirius, though in your case –" he laughed, a deep laugh that just bordered on sinister " – we must call you the white sheep of the Black family, mustn't we?"

"Don't really have to call me anything," I muttered.

My father gently drummed the fingers of his wand hand against the desk. "No, I suppose not. After all, you pale into something insignificant next to our dear Regulus." He leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing me. "Have you, perchance, heard of the rise of our Lord?"

"What lord?"

Smiling twistedly, my father answered, "A very powerful man who is styling himself as the Dark Lord. Only as a formality, mark you, only as a title. His real purpose, you see, is to cleanse the wizarding world."

My stomach seemed to be dropping. Of course, over the past few years there'd been rumors enough of someone calling himself the Dark Lord, and though it had ceased being the topic of uneasy jokes and was now only discussed in hushed and fearful conversations, it had never been really real for me. Hearing the words on my father's lips suddenly solidified it. "Cleanse?" I croaked.

"Indeed yes," my father said. "He means to make a pure-blooded society, as his great ancestor Salazar Slytherin once purposed. Muggle-borns have no place in our world, nor do those with tainted blood. Those who have an unnatural love of Muggles will be taught the error in their ways." He was smiling still, less condescending now, more eager as he explained this brilliant future to me.

I felt sick.

"So … Peter's Muggle-born. What happens to him?"

"Cast from our society."

"James?"

"The same."

Nausea was growing in the back of my throat. "What about Remus?"

My father shrugged. "As a werewolf, he too is tainted. I am sure our Lord shall find … uses for him."

I stumbled back from his desk. "I –" I whispered. "I – I've got to –" I desperately needed to get away from this man, who I knew with sudden certainty was quite as mad as my mother.

For a moment my father simply stared at me. Then he added, "Our Lord has a group of loyal, trusted followers, who he calls his Death Eaters. Regulus has recently joined their ranks." He smiled in satisfaction at the arrested look on my face, then concluded, "You are dismissed."

I fled.

Once in the relative safety of my own room, I simply sat curled up on the bed, staring around. This bedroom wasn't really mine, because I was only in it for two months out of the year; it contained only a bed, a desk, my trunk, and a picture frame on the wall, blank and white.

What was I supposed to do?

I'd always known my family weren't the nicest people. I knew they had Dark stuff around the house, and they liked to hit me, sure; but supporting a bloody holocaust?

Someone coughed behind me. I turned and met the sarcastic gaze of the man who sometimes visited my room's blank picture frame. Phineas Nigellus, my great-great-grandfather, an old Hogwarts headmaster, and a bloody sarcastic portrait.

"Hello, Phineas," I said dully.

He frowned at me. "Sulking," he informed me, "is very unbecoming. I don't care if you think the world doesn't understand you, stop it this minute."

I gave a barking laugh. "I think it's that I don't understand the world, really."

Phineas shrugged. "And you're telling me this is new?"

Rolled my eyes, I said impatiently, "Look, if Regulus joined a madman bent on killing everyone he didn't think was good enough, and the rest of my family thinks it's a smashing idea, then do I have the right of it, or do they?"

Phineas looked startled. "Well, they do say, the longer you exist, the stupider everyone else seems. It appears that my illustrious family has just taken a turn for the more intriguing and less intelligent." He stopped and glared at me. "Not that I'm implying this makes you the slightest bit more useful, you know."

Feeling slightly better, I assured him I indeed knew, and went back to ignoring him. Maybe … there was no reasoning with my mother, and my father was too dangerous, but if I could get Regulus to see sense …

Decided, I sprang up from my bed and left the room, ignoring Phineas' yells behind me for an explanation of exactly where I thought I was going. I walked across the landing and knocked on my brother's door. "Regulus? It's me."

My brother opened the door and blinked at me in surprise. I was a bit startled too; I hadn't seen Regulus since he was thirteen. After I was Sorted into Gryffindor, my parents thought it would be best for my little brother to go to Durmstrang; I only saw him for segments of two months at a time, though the past summer he had been staying with some of his Durmstrang friends. Last time I saw him, he'd been short and skinny and thirteen. He was taller now, his hair less scraggly, his frame less thin, but otherwise looking much the same. Regulus looks a lot like my mother, really, with the same slightly pinched look and wide eyes, though Regulus appears to be a lot more mentally balanced.

"Sirius?" he said in surprise. "You're home?"

"Until next term," I replied. "Look, can I come in?"

Regulus shrugged and opened the door wider. I came into his room, wandering across the faded carpet to gaze out the window at more London rooftops. Turning back to my brother, preparing to speak, my eyes fell on black robes draped over the end of his bed. Lying on top of the robes was a strange blank mask.

"What's that?"

Regulus drew himself up proudly. "The robes of a Death Eater, our Lord's loyal followers, and these very robes are mine."

I looked at him. His eyes were shining with the same proud light I had seen in my father's, and his face was bright with the same conviction. "So," I said cuttingly, "will you be doing good and noble work from behind a mask, then?"

Nostrils turning white, as they always did when he was annoyed, Regulus snapped, "This is top-secret stuff, Sirius. Don't question our Lord."

Carefully not touching those disgusting black robes, I flopped down on my brother's bed. "Right, no questioning the great and almighty Dark lord. Got it." I pulled my knees up to my chin and regarded Regulus, who was looking highly affronted and clutching his wand, not very threateningly, with white-knuckled hands. "So, Regulus, ever heard of Hitler?"

"Who?" Regulus said.

"I guess you wouldn't," I said with superiority. "After all, Muggle history couldn't possibly affect us, could it?"

"Cut the sarcasm," Regulus growled, "and get to the point about this filthy Muggle Hitless or whatever."

"Hitler," I corrected him, "and for once you're right about the filthy part. Good job." Regulus' hands tightened on his wand, and I decided not to push it any further, so I said quickly, "I suppose you have heard of Grindelwald, though."

"Of course," Regulus sneered. "Grindelwald was a great Dark wizard in the 1930s and '40s, from Germany, defeated by Dumbledore in 1945. What does this have to do with anything?"

"Then I suppose you were paying enough attention in class to hear that he was helped by a German Muggle," I said, more quickly now, trying to keep my brother's attention. He was still looking scornful, but he did seem to be listening. "Grindelwald was helped by Hitler. I don't know if Grindelwald had some vendetta against Jews, but he encouraged Hitler to start a holocaust while both of them attempted to take over Europe. Hitler vanished when Grindelwald was defeated and the Muggles won their war against the two."

Regulus rolled his eyes. "Thank you, dearest brother, for the history lesson. Now, your point?"

"Your lord," I said slowly, as though he was dim-witted, "has some sort of vendetta against anyone non pure-blood. We're encouraging a bloody holocaust here, Regulus! Even if he says now he just wants to rid them from wizarding society, if enough people listen, he's likely to go power-mad –"

"You're wrong," Regulus interrupted me harshly, looking nervous. "Shut up, Sirius, you're being an alarmist." He grabbed my wrist where my mother had bruised it, and I had to bite back a cry of pain as Regulus shoved me from his room and slammed the door behind me.

"Damn," I whispered, and trudged back to my own room.

"How'd it go?" Phineas asked me, sounding almost curious.

"I've got the worst effing family in the history of everything," I told the portrait sharply, and curled up on my bed. My face itched where my mother had slapped me, I had somehow bitten through my lip again while talking to my brother, and my wrist throbbed. I shut my eyes tightly and willed myself very hard to act my bloody age. When a hot tear managed to squeeze its way out from under my eyelid, I caught it before it hit the pillow. It was surprisingly cool after having felt so hot against my face. I wiped it hurriedly on my trouser-leg, wrapped my arms around my knees, and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

I was awakened by something poking me in the ribs with surprising insistence. Highly annoyed, I opened my eyes and found myself staring into another pair of eyes, rather bulging, in the ugly brown face of my mother's favorite house-elf, Kreacher. Upon seeing me awake, the disgusting elf's face split into a mad little grin. "Hello, sir," he said gleefully. "Mistress wanted sir awake half an hour ago. Mistress will be most displeased with sir." He giggled unpleasantly at the prospect.

"Wanted me where?" I croaked impatiently, my voice hoarse with sleep.

"The dining room," Kreacher cackled. "Oh yes, Master and Mistress are both displeased …" He skipped off out the room, still cackling.

"I hope you don't like the little bugger," I said, turning to Phineas' portrait. But the canvass was empty and I got no reply. Sighing, I got to my feet, shook out my robes, gently touched the dried and scabbing blood on my lower lip, and set off downstairs.

The moment I arrived in the dining room, I knew something was very wrong. The chandelier above the dining table was aglow with lit candles, and in their light I could see my family around the table. The dinner dishes were out, with crumbs on them signaling that I had missed eating, or that my family didn't care enough to wake me for the meal. My mother was sitting at the head of the table, back ramrod-straight, looking at me with her wide wild eyes and an ugly smile on her face. Regulus stood behind her, clutching the back of her chair, his knuckles still white and a slightly desperate smile on his face as well. As I entered his eyes flickered to meet mine, then darted away to look at my father. I followed his look and met my father's gaze. It was absolutely cold and unfeeling. He was the only one not smiling, which was a very bad sign indeed, and he was expertly tapping his wand against the palm of his hand.

I swallowed painfully. "Yes?" I almost-whispered, recalling myself enough to make my voice slightly louder.

"Regulus," my father said in a very icy voice, "has informed me of your insubordination."

"Insubordination?" I repeated incredulously, and looked at Regulus. My brother refused to meet my eyes. I looked at my mother, whose smile grew even wider, and then back to my father, who was still regarding me frostily. "What are you talking about?"

"I believe I told you earlier today about the Dark Lord," my father said thoughtfully. "If you are not too stupid to have forgotten it already, perhaps you may recall telling Regulus that our Lord is evil and your brother stupid?"

"I didn't say –" I started, but the words died on my tongue. Though I hadn't said exactly that, it had certainly been implied. I raised my head defiantly. "Yeah, I do remember that. What of it?"

My father smiled now, a slow, charismatic, and very evil smile. "Such disobedience will not be stood for," he told me with deadly calm, and tapped his wand pointedly against his palm.

I took a deep breath, fighting hysterical laughter that was rising within me and trying to calm the hammering of my heart. "I –" I started, but it came out a barely-audible whisper. I cleared my throat and said, very deliberately and clearly, "I. Don't. Care."

My father tilted his head slightly sideways, contemplating this answer. I saw, as though in slow motion, as he raised his wand, pointed it at me, and said, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather, "Crucio."

Suddenly the slap my mother had given me and the throbbing of my bruised wrist seemed inconsequential. I vaguely remember repeating to myself, over and over, as my knees buckled and I fell to the ground, curling up in a vain effort to stop the pain, that I was not going to cry out, I wasn't going to scream, wouldn't give my father the satisfaction. I think I bit through my lip a fourth time in an attempt to keep from screaming, but after being far too hot and far too cold and stabbed all over with invisible knives and cramping up everywhere and dizzy with all the intense pain, I sort of lost track of thinking, and by the time I started screaming it didn't really matter what my family thought of that, because dying would have been a very, very welcome relief.

Some last part of my mind observed with cold indifference that any wizard with the slightest shred of decency would have stopped by now, but my father has no decency, and the pain went on and on and on. With a thrill of terror quite outside the pain, I felt my body beginning to rebel against the curse, starting to shut down, and I knew that I didn't really want to die. But still the pain went on, indifferent to the wishes of some foolish boy, and my voice gave out, but my mind kept shrieking, not a wordless scream now but ohgodsohgods PeterJamesRemushelp –

And the pain stopped.

I came to myself lying on the dining room floor with my face pressed into the musty carpet. My lungs were starved for air, and I breathed in desperately against a sharp pain in my chest. My entire body was cramped up so that I couldn't move, and a red miasma swam in front of my eyes.

After a moment I registered voices. Regulus' – "he's alive?"; my mother's – "oh yes, this was just a lesson, come on, dearest…" and footsteps as the two walked around my body and out of the room; my father's, almost crooning down at me, "It does seem a pity I had to beat sense into you. Let this be a lesson to you, Sirius," and he kicked me hard in the stomach before walking off. I simply lay there, trying hard to breathe and trying hard not to think. After an eternity and a moment, I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 I awoke in the dark, still lying on the carpet, with every part of me aching horribly and a very welcome voice ringing inside my head, "If you need, you can always come to my house."

Of course. It was blindingly obvious now.

I would leave. I would take James at his word, and run away forever from the oh-so-Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.