Chapter 1: As a Young Child
Any characters, settings, dates, ect that you may recognize, are Jo Rowlings. 'Cause she rocks.
By Padfoot
I personally like this fic a lot, and I know what I'm planning to do with it, and I already started chapter two, which means I'll update soon. This is also a bit different than what I usually write, no diolouge at all. It's all in Sirius Black's POV. So there. - Padfoot
It is hard for anyone besides me to imagine the memories of my life. It is hard for anyone to realize how strong you have to be to live through it. It is hard to imagine that some people could act in such ways. But now I'm forcing you to imagine. I'm forcing you to relive through the memories I'm about to give you of my past. I'm forcing you to be strong.
You all, reading this, know what the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black looked like in 1995, when Harry was here on his summer stay. It was quite similar to that even when I was growing up, living there before I even went to Hogwarts. A mother screaming at her sons, it's dark, lonely rooms, and the feeling that you're no longer of importance are the main things people find in the Black's home.
Well, it's not even like a home, at all. A home is somewhere you look forward to returning to after a long journey. A home has a welcoming door, windows in every room to keep it light, and nice inhabitants. A home is where you live. Where you love living; where you would spend your entire life if you could. But no. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is not a home.
If you even thought about calling the Black house a home, I'd definitely not speak to or of you for weeks. The bedrooms have gray walls, no windows, just oil lamps to bring hardly any, but some, light into the rooms. The kitchen downstairs is small, and damp, mostly home to our house elf, Kreatcher. I could never wait until he died, that way we could chop off his head and mount it onto the wall like the past house elves.
I would gladly tell you every horrid detail about the Black house, but I am sure that you have better things to do then cringe as you imagine my lifestyle as a young child. The Black home was a dwelling, more like. It was just a shelter for me. It was just a roof to hang over my head, a place where I could sleep. While my whole life I would prefer living out on the streets than the home I was born into.
Even worst than the dwelling that I lived in, were the people that I lived with. Sure, we were only a four person family, but my mother constantly had her snobbish friends over and my mother and father held small parties in our home at least once a month. I also shared a room with my younger brother, Regulus; who was a nightmare. I can still recall my mother's repulsive screams telling me that he was a much better son than I.
My mother was—I'd rather not say it. I spent most of my childhood confided in my lonesome room with Regulus because of her. Before her parties, with her equally conceited friends, she would yell at me, mostly, and tell me to behave myself, and if I didn't, I would regret it forever. Some parties I had to spend locked in my room, which I really didn't mind, actually. I'd rather spend an evening shut up in my room then be shunted to the side by men and women twice my size.
My father wasn't really around that much; he was at the Ministry of Magic most of the time, though he didn't work there. When he was around, though, he was commenting and complaining. My family is pure-bloods, which made Mr. Black feel that we were absolutely royal, belonging to one of the last pure-blood families left. Marrying a muggle was completely wrong, and should be punishable by law. That was his philosophy, anyway. My father and mother constantly shoved this philosophy down our throats.
My younger brother, Regulus, was your extreme mommy's-boy. My mother loved him like she never did to me. Regulus trailed my mother around the house, believing every word that spat out of her and father's mouths. He was an equally snobbish boy and was always a favorite at mother's parties. If only he would learn that being a pure-blood wizard meant nothing if you act superior.
As a child I was either shunted aside or yelled at; looking back, it's surprising that I didn't shut up inside myself and disappear completely. But, somehow, I always kept my hopes up. There was always a burning light inside of me that kept me spirited for the first eleven years of my life. You can guess how I felt when I got my letter to Hogwarts.
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