We didn't know it then, but that was the day that changed our lives. From the very moment we returned home, Mama set up a new regime. She said that, now that Sirius was the official family heir, he had to start acting like it. And according to her, clan leaders didn't jump in mud puddles, climb trees, or rumble with their brothers. She took away his Practice Broom, his wooden ogre figures, his firecrackers, and his toy Quidditch ball set. All of his playthings were collected in a great bin and burned. I begged to be allowed to inherit some of these things, but Mama accused me of wanting to save them only so that I could give them back to Sirius in secret, and Father said that Blacks don't play with hand-me-downs, not even when the previous owner was their older sibling. So it was that Sirius' leisurely life came to an end.
She moved him out of the nursery we had, up until then, shared. He was now expected to rise at dawn and begin his studies. The children on the block, even those from the oldest families, were no longer his equals, Mama said, and he was rarely allowed to see them. Mama dressed him with conspicuous care every day and chastised him if he should soil or tear his clothes. The long hours he had previously spent lounging around the house, crawling in the attic, and playing with his numerous toys were now spent bent over textbooks or learning how to ballroom dance. The things Sirius had been able to get away with before—teasing the neighbor children, practicing magic in secret, beating me up, all things that Mama had simply excused on account of his being a Black, and therefore exempt from the tedious rules of lower society—he was no longer allowed to do, as they were not befitting of his station. If he had thought himself harassed before, Sirius now positively lamented his position of power.
As for me, I was still allowed to lounge around the house, but I would have much preferred to be in Sirius' place. Mama was very attentive to him. She accompanied him all over the place, had the house elves, Grigorus and Kreacher, cook his favorite meals all the time, and told everyone she came across about the good fortune she had had in having a son. That Sirius, himself, was so ungrateful for all this attention, I account to his being so spoiled; Sirius was so used to being at the center of everything, that he had begun to tire of the limelight and only complained when Mama doted on him. He was so used to getting every toy or sweet that he wanted, that no treat seemed unusual or special to him anymore. Any boy would have been lucky to be in his position, with power, wealth, and constant attention to his every need. When he, therefore, found little sympathy in me, he used to get huffy and call me names.
A prime example of all of this came to a head only a few weeks after the funeral, at Christmas, when Sirius was just beginning to feel the effects of his new role.
Dec 25th, 1970
Number 12 Grimmauld Place
On Christmas morning I woke up early. Not because I was excited about the holiday, mind you, but rather because I was in the habit of waking up early, thanks to my mother's obnoxious routine. As usual, my new room seemed, upon waking, empty and cold. It was full of things my mother had chosen; all of my own possessions had been taken away. The first few days after the move, I had been intensely grateful to be free of Regulus' constant presence. Every morning I could wake up, in my own bed, and do whatever I pleased without fear of disturbing him or having him run tattling to Mother. About a week in, however, I noticed how alone I was and actually rather missed him.
This morning, however, I was glad he wasn't around. Now that I was the heir, the family would be celebrating the holidays at our house, or Christmas at least, and I would have precious little time to myself in the next few days. I was determined to enjoy the silence while it lasted. I lifted the shades on the windows and let a little of the early morning light shine through, just enough so that I could find my day robes and pull them on, being very careful not to wake any of the portraits. Mother had cleverly placed several portraits in the room to watch over me, much to my extreme annoyance. They would sit there all day commenting on my appearance, or the manner in which I did my work. Sometimes I threw breadcrumbs and candlewax at them, but that generally just got me into trouble. Mother would tell me that I had to show restraint and respect regarding my ancestors. She was a hypocrite. Once, my second cousin thrice-removed, Daphne Nigellus, had given my mother some "advice" about how to raise her children, and my mother had had the portrait thrown into the cellar where very large mice had chewed holes in the canvas. We heard Daphne's indignant screams for several hours, and then all was quiet.
After dressing, I tip-toed downstairs and into the kitchen to make breakfast. I was just spreading sliced bananas on top of my toast with jam when Grigorus, the house elf, began to make a fuss. He was preparing breakfast for the family while Kreacher, the other house elf, was lighting the fire. Grigorus had been my father's personal house elf, given to him for his eleventh birthday. When my father married my mother, Grigorus had come to live in the manor with them. Kreacher, on the other hand, was my mother's house elf. He had been born in this house, and in my opinion, would most likely die in this house. Grigorus was the senior house elf, as Kreacher was still quite young, and handled all of the family's main affairs, especially mine. He had almost been like a personal house elf to me, in the last few weeks more so than ever. Although I had no special love for house elves—no creature so naturally subservient can command much respect from me—I had to admit that Grigorus was a devoted servant.
Just now he was jumping up and down in agitation and saying, "Master musn't do that! Master musn't do that!" I wasn't sure if he meant I musn't make my own breakfast, or I musn't combine bananas with blueberry jam, but either way I didn't pay him much mind. I started humming a tune.
"Please, Master should let Grigorus do that for him," Grigorus continued in a whiny voice, trying to snatch my knife out of my hand.
"No thanks, Greg," I said, holding the knife above his reach. "I can do it. You wouldn't know how to do it the way I want, anyway." I went to pour some pumpkin juice in a glass.
"Grigorus would be honored to fetch the young master's juice," Girgorus cried, limping towards me; He had a bad leg from a time once when he had found it necessary to punish himself very grievously indeed. Mother refused to tell me what the exact occasion had been.
"I can get it," I sighed. I could have let the elf do everything for me, but I was feeling overwhelmed with all the attention I'd been getting—when Grigorus had surprised me the other day in the shower in order to bring me fresh bar of soap, that had really been the last straw—and I really just wanted to do it myself.
By the time I returned to my toast, a surprise was waiting for me. In his despair, Grigorus had apparently constructed two dozen very hastily-made banana and jam sandwiches for me and arranged them on a platter. At first I just stared at them. Then I laughed. "Greg, what do I want two dozen sandwiches for?" I asked, shaking my head. Picking up my original piece of toast and my glass, I moved to the table in the center of the room and began eating. I heard the sound of Grigorus dumping the sandwiches into the waste bin and then beating himself over the head with the platter. He kept saying things like, "Of course, Master doesn't want Grigorus' sandwiches. Grigorus makes very bad sandwiches, Master said." After a while, the sound of the tin platter whacking against Grigorus' skull annoyed me, so I left the kitchen and snuck out into the yard.
Several inches of fluffy, white snow had fallen all around. I took it into my head to make a snowman. What I really wanted to make was a genuine, fire-breathing snowdragon. I thought it would be wonderfully ironic for a snowcreature to breath fire. But the morning chill got to me, even through my fur-lined boots and thick coat, and after a while, I gave up. As I was stomping the snow off my boots, I heard an indication that the rest of my family was waking up; my mother was yelling. Cautiously, I slipped my coat off and went into the hallway to see what the commotion was. My mother was standing there, pointing at Grigorus.
"Are you so incompetent now that you can't even make breakfast for my son, the heir to the family of Black?" she was shouting, her head thrown high and her eyes glinting like dark emeralds in their sockets. She wouldn't even let him get a word in, not that he was trying. Mostly, he was hitting his head against the tile floor. "Are you so worthless that you forget your duty and can only dissatisfy my son at every turn? What do I keep you for, you pathetic runt?"
Oblivious to Grigorus' tears and cries of self-reproach, Mother turned and grabbed an ornamental sword that was hanging on the wall above the Black coat of arms. It was ornamental, but the blade was real and sharp enough. With one vicious movement, she brought the edge down upon Grigorus' petrified neck, slicing his head clean off. Spurts of house elf blood squirted out of the remaining stump as Grigorus' torso twitched and fell forward, hitting the floor with a muffled 'thud.' His shriveled head, eyes still open wide with fear, rolled across the tile and landed a few steps away from me, leaving a slimy, red trail behind it. Mother had noticed me now, but I didn't take my eyes off of Grigorus' distorted face.
The silence was broken by the sound of gasping sobs. At last I looked up and saw Regulus, crouched halfway down the staircase. His face was pale, and his round eyes were focused unwaveringly on Grigorus' carcass. He began to burst into tears, making a whining noise in the back of his throat, with his face all screwed up in a look of terrified misery. He was only eight years old, and he'd never witnessed a house-elf beheading before.
"Hush, now, Reggie. Stop that racket," I said gently. He continued to whine.
"Oh quit that, Regulus," Mother sniffed, "It was only a house-elf. And not even a good one at that. He was getting totally incompetent. He doesn't even deserve to have his head on a plaque!"
"It was a lousy piece of toast, Mother," I replied coldly. I couldn't shake a growing sense of guilt, and I wanted desperately to place the blame on someone else. "He didn't do anything wrong."
"This time," Mother said, shaking her head. "Next time he would have been misplacing the family heirlooms, or spilling custard on the rugs. One has to stop these sorts of things in their tracks, before they get out of hand." My glare was my only reply. I couldn't keep a tear from running down my cheek, though. I didn't want to look weak in front of her, but I couldn't help it. I felt more tears welling up belatedly in my eyes. "One day you'll understand, Sirius," she continued. "One day, when you've started acting like a mature, responsible adult, and not like an emotional, silly child."
The noise had attracted Father; he came slowly down the stairs in his dressing gown and surveyed the scene. After a moment he went on into the kitchen. All he said was, "you should've waited until after the party, Hecuba. We could've used an extra hand."
Mother didn't reply. She called Kreacher in to clean up the mess. There was something perverse in watching the bent, young house-elf sweeping up the remains of his former companion and disposing of them in the waste bin. "Kreacher will not go out so disgracefully," he muttered as he worked. "Kreacher will get his head on a plaque, just like his mother."
Regulus was still hunched on the stairs in his bath robe. His eyes were red and his lower lip jutted out, trembling. An occasional sniffling sob escaped him. Eventually, my mother turned around and said harshly, "go upstairs and wash your face! And no more tears, or they'll be no presents for you!" Then she, too, went into the kitchen.
I remained standing there until long after Kreacher had scrubbed all the flecks of blood off of the walls.
I was so slow the rest of the morning I almost wasn't ready in time to greet my relatives when they arrived. Christmas was one of the biggest holidays for the family. There was always a very big party on Halloween at Uncle Claudius' manor, but most of my cousins were off at school in October, and the smaller children, such as myself, were generally left at home. Christmas was the one chance for all the family to come together. Even some distant relatives of my mother's came.
I got one of my presents early: new dress robes. As a ten-year old boy, I really could think of a lot of things I'd rather get for Christmas than dress robes, but there was no hope for it. I figured part of Mother's new regime would include the disappearance of any possible worthwhile presents.
The new robes were black with silver and green trim. The elaborately decorative collar rubbed obnoxiously against my neck. I wanted nothing more than to sneak into the kitchen, loosen my collar, and eat Christmas biscuits, but I had no such luck. There was dancing, feasting, and talking, none of which I, as the future head of the house, was exempt from. Well, I can dance quite nicely, and I've never had anything against eating, so that part went fine, even thought Uncle Claudius once paired me up to dance with Bellatrix. Everyone knows that the male is supposed to lead the dance, but Bellatrix kept trying take over. As a result, I kept stepping on the hem of her new dress robes. Well, it was her own, stupid fault, but she kept blaming me. Out of annoyance, I really did bring my boot down on her dress robes, hard, and I kept it there, too. Some of the fancy trim tore off her robes and Bellatrix got all huffy and called me names. Mother had to separate us. The upside was that no one asked me to dance with Bellatrix again.
Opening presents lacked its usual appeal that year. I have never gone for that sissy open-each-present-slowly-to-enjoy-the-moment method that Regulus uses. I tear through my gifts like any normal child. After all, who cares about all those silly bows and doo-dads? It's what's inside the box that counts! But this time, what was inside those boxes was mostly school supplies and such: more new robes, some books to read at school, a grey scarf and matching cap that even I had to admit were really nice, and a big onyx and diamond ring with the Black Family Crest on it. It was huge. Like I would ever wear something that big and heavy on my finger! But that was from my parents, so they wanted me to put it on. It was supposed to be a congratulatory gift for becoming the heir. I did get a really interesting book from Uncle Alphard about the most famous and dangerous Quidditch moves ever. And a book I got from my father about unusual curses looked sort of good, too. My father often had a bit of sympathy with me, although Regulus resembled him more. Father understood that being the heir was a hassle, and he used to try to soften my mother's decisions. When I heard him tell stories of how he and Uncle Claudius had grown up, I used to be jealous. I wish I had been the second born, too. But I wasn't. So I had to put up with all this nonsense.
The talking part came after the gift giving. That part was much more annoying. I was especially bitter when I saw Regulus and Sissy rush upstairs to the nursery to play with their new gifts.
The drawing room was full of adults, dressed in finery and sitting on the velvet-lined chairs holding drinks in their hands. Mother sat next to me, prompting me every now and then to make some intelligent comment and poking me in the back if I started slouching. At first we talked about Quidditch—Father favored the Scottish team, and Uncle Claudius hoped Russia would be allowed to play—which was interesting. Then we started talking about school as Ann would be graduating in the spring, and Sissy and I would be attending in the fall. Hogwarts was getting a new Headmaster. This was big news, indeed, to the adults at least. Bellatrix was complaining about the growing lenience in Hogwarts' Headmasters. Uncle Claudius started criticizing the wizard who was going to be taking over, Albus Dumbledore was his name, and saying that he would undoubtedly be bringing ridiculous new liberal ideas to the school. Belerma, my father's cousin mentioned how really lamentable the condition of Hogwarts had become. She said that more and more mudbloods were being accepted and tolerance of Muggles was being taught. The whole family got quite excited about this. Personally, I wondered what it would be like going to school with mudbloods. I had never really seen one close up.
Mother told me that mudbloods were filthy people and that I would do better to stay away from them. Cousin Belerma assured Mother I would be quite safe; Mudbloods never got into House Slytherin, she said, and I was sure to be protected there. The whole family, as far back as anyone could remember, had been in House Slytherin. There was no doubt I would be too. I was just a little disappointed. I wanted to find out what mudbloods were like, and whether they acted like normal wizards. Sissy had told me once that mudbloods were great, ugly people with large feet who smelled like wet dogs and who generally had trouble learning even the simplest things. I didn't believe her; she'd certainly never seen a mudblood any more than I had!
"Of course, you've heard, Claudius," Belerma continued, "there are some of us who don't intend on putting up with this anymore."
"And well we shouldn't," Uncle Claudius nodded.
"Are you speaking of Lord Voldemort?" Cousin Orion asked in a hushed voice. I had never heard of this Lord Voldemort fellow, but all the adults seemed to have. They gave quiet nods and exchanged meaningful glances. Ann shifted uncomfortably from her place by the fireplace.
"If this Lord succeeds, we shall at last see an end to the awful deterioration of the wizarding bloodlines that has been going on for the past decades." Belerma struck her fist against her armrest to emphasize her pleasure.
"Think how many problems that would solve," my mother murmured.
"I shouldn't be sorry to see the last Muggle obliterated off the face of this Earth," Aunt Elladora agreed eagerly, sipping her champagne.
"Well, now," Father broke in. "I suppose they needn't be obliterated. They would make good servants, after all," he said thoughtfully. "We will always need lesser beings to serve us, and Muggles are fairly intelligent in their own way. Their lack of magic makes them defenseless against us. If the Ministry would let us end this ridiculous façade, we could put them to use at last."
"Damn the Ministry," Cousin Orion shouted. "Those fools have been accomplishing nothing for the last hundred years. It's time we took matters into our own hands."
"Precisely," said Cousin Belerma, coming back to her point. "And Lord Voldemort is willing to do something about it. At last a man stands up who is brave enough to do what he must."
I was a little perturbed by the whole discussion. I agreed with my father. There was no reason to kill all the poor Muggles. They couldn't really help being inferior. I couldn't stop thinking about Grigorus' untimely death, and how it was all my fault. Such unnecessary killing seemed to me to be a horrible idea. It was true, Grigorus was just a house elf, and not even a very good one at that. But surely he had not deserved death, definitely not for whatever small offense my mother imagined he had committed against me. No Muggles had ever done me any harm. The thought of hundreds or thousands of them lying around on the streets, their heads chopped off like poor Grigorus', the blood running out of their stump-like necks was too much. I began to voice some of my opinions, but Aunt Elladora gave Mother and me a withering look and said that, even though I was obviously weak and slow, I ought to show a little manly conviction and pride in my heritage. Mother told me to be quiet.
"Lord Voldemort needs support if he's to do anything," Cousin Orion's wife, Ursa, argued from behind her fan, thankfully taking the attention off of me. "There are plenty of idiots who will oppose him, and one man alone can't effect a whole rebellion."
"You don't know this Voldemort," Cousin Belerma replied coolly. "Besides, I heard he's searching for supporters even as we speak. More and more wizards are quietly going over to his side. My dear Uncle-in-law has contacted Lord Voldemort's agents to talk about the situation. He told me it looks very promising. I, for one, wouldn't be against making some helpful donations to his cause. I know other families who think the same way."
Uncle Claudius had been quiet for some time. Now he sat up straighter in his chair and uncrossed his legs. His fingertips were pressed together eagerly under his chin. "We musn't let the name of Black suffer any loss of honor," he said. "I've heard things about this Voldemort myself. They say he means business. Well, I say, we've waited long enough for this chance. Let us take this opportunity to show out support to him. Through his efforts, we may be able to raise the noble bloodlines of England to their former glory. Any pureblood wizards owes it to this Voldemort to stand up and take part." My uncle leaned forward and let his voice drop. His eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened into a sly grin. "And if we support him now, our Lord is sure to remember us later, and reward us accordingly."
Several people in the room nodded solemnly at his, with similar tight smiles on their faces, and drained their glasses. Bellatrix looked extremely pleased with her father. Andromeda stood up abruptly and left the room, saying she wanted to check on the children upstairs. My father interrupted the quiet murmurs of agreement with his calm, low voice.
"It is too early," he said, with just a hint of nervousness. "For all we know, this Voldemort could be taken out tomorrow. The Ministry could ban his activities. He could turn out to be a false prophet. If we choose sides openly now, and Voldemort loses, we will be lost as well. His enemies will turn against us and we will be without friends. We can't risk opposing the Ministry!"
"You're suggesting we side with those money-grubbing asses?" Great Uncle Parzival cried, knocking over his glass in his excitement and spilling wine on the rug. My mother winced. Kreacher appeared as if out of nowhere and began, very inconspicuously, to wipe up the mess.
"No," my father replied firmly. "I'm saying we shouldn't reveal our hand just yet. Joining either side this prematurely would mean our downfall. We must wait and see which side is likely to come out victorious, then we will make our choice, when the time is right."
"When the time is right?" Uncle Claudius was almost red in the face. "You coward! You always were a good-for-nothing sneak. Have you no pride? No values? We must make a decision now, and stand up for our beliefs."
"We must do nothing," Mother interrupted loudly, but calmly. "We are Blacks. We will act when we are ready."
The room was overflowing with tension. People began to break off into their own separate conversations, murmuring in low, heated tones. Arguments broke out. In the confusion, I managed to slip away and rush upstairs to the nursery. I didn't even try to hide in my own bedroom. I didn't know why, but I felt cold all over, and I wanted company, no matter whose.